TREASURE  and  TROUBLE 
THEREWITH 


BOOKS  BY  GERALDINE  BONNER 

TREASURE   AND   TROUBLE 
THEREWITH 

THE  GIRL  AT  CENTRAL 

THE  BLACK   EAGLE  MYSTERY 


D.   APPLETON  &    COMPANY 

Publishers  New  York 


He  ...  heard  the  feller  at  the  wheel  say,  "Hands  up.3 

[PA   E  4] 


TREASURE  and  TROUBLE 
THEREWITH 

A  TALE  OF  CALIFORNIA 


BY 
GERALDINE  BONNER 

AUTHOB  OF  "THE  EMIGRANT  TRAIL,"  "THE  PIONEER,"  "THE  BLACK 
EAGLE  MYSTERY,"  "THE  GIRL  AT  CENTRAL,"  ETC. 


ILLUSTRATED   BY 

STOCKTON  MULFORD 


D.  APPLETON  AND  COMPANY 

NEW  YORK  LONDON 

1917 


COPYRIGHT,  1917,  BY 
D.  APPLETON  AND  COMPANY 


Printed  in  the  United  States  of  America 


I    DEDICATE    THIS    BOOK    TO    THE    MEMORY     OF     MY 
FATHER 

JOHN  BONNER 

WHO,  HIMSELF  A  WRITER,  TRAINED  ME  IN  THE 
WORK  HE  LOVED.  WHAT  MERIT  THE  READER  MAY 
FIND  IN  THESE  PAGES  IS  THE  RESULT  OF  THAT  TRAIN- 
ING, UNDERTAKEN  WITH  A  FATHER'S  PRIDE,  CARRIED 
ON  WITH  A  FATHER'S  BELIEF  AND  ENCOURAGEMENT. 

GERALDINE  BONNER 


CONTENTS 

CHAPTER  PAGE 

I.      HANDS  UP .  1 

II.       THE   TULES        6 

III.       MARQUIS  DE  LAFAYETTE 17 

IV.       THE   DERELICT 28 

V.       THE  MARKED  PARAGRAPH 36 

VI.       PANCHA 42 

VII.       THE   PICAROON 53 

VIII.       THOSE  GIRLS  OF  GEORGE'S 60 

IX.       GREEK   MEETS  GREEK 75 

X.       MICHAELS  THE  MINER 86 

XI.       THE  SOLID  GOLD  NUGGET        97 

XII.      A  Kiss 108 

XIII.  FOOLS  IN  THEIR  FOLLY         115 

XIV.  THE  NIGHT  RIDER 124 

XV.       THE   LAST  DINNER 132 

XVI.    7  THROUGH  A  GLASS   DARKLY 142 

XVII.  THE  WOLF  IN  SHEEP'S  CLOTHING     .     .     .  154 

XVIII.       OUTLAWED 164 

XIX.  HALF   TRUTHS   AND   INFERENCES       .     .     .  180 

XX.       MARK  PAYS  A  CALL 196 

XXI.      A  WOMAN  SCORNED 207 

XXII.       THEREBY  HANGS  A  TALE 216 

XXIII.       THE  CHINESE  CHAIN 223 

XXIV.      LOVERS  AND  LADIES *     .     .  233 

vil 


Contents 


CHAPTER  PAQH 

XXV.  WHAT  JIM   SAW 245 

XXVI.  PANCHA  WRITES  A  LETTER 252 

XXVII.  BAD    NEWS          258 

XXVIII.  CHRYSTIE  SEES  THE  DAWN 263 

XXIX.  LORRY  SEES  THE  DAWN 275 

XXX.  MARK  SEES  THE  DAWN 290 

XXXI.  REVELATION 299 

XXXII.  THE  VOICE  IN  THE  NIGHT 308 

XXXIII.  THE  MORNING  THAT  CAME 814 

XXXI V./  LOST           325 

XXXV,  THE  UNKNOWN  WOMAN 341 

XXXVI.  THE  SEARCH 356 

XXXVII.  HAIL  AND  FAREWELL 370 


LIST  OF  ILLUSTRATIONS 

He  .  .  .  heard  the  feller  at  the  wheel  say,  "Hands  up !" 

Frontispiece 


FACING 

PAGE 


"Oh,  silly,  unbelieving  child!"  came  his  voice  .  .  .  146 
As  it  came  it  sent  up  a  hoarse  cry  for  food  ....  260 
The  ghost  of  a  smile  touched  her  lips 366 


TREASURE  and  TROUBLE 
THEREWITH 


CHAPTER  I 
HANDS  UP 

THE  time  was  late  August  some  eleven  years  ago. 
The  place  that  part  of  central  California  where,  on 
one  side,  the  plain  unrolls  in  golden  levels,  and  on 
the  other  swells  upward  toward  the  rounded  undulations 
of  the  foothills. 

It  was  very  hot;  the  sky  a  fathomless  blue  vault,  the 
land  dreaming  in  the  afternoon  glare,  its  brightness 
blurred  here  and  there  by  shimmering  heat  veils.  Check- 
ered by  green  and  yellow  patches,  dotted  with  the  black 
domes  of  oaks,  it  brooded  sleepily,  showing  few  signs  of 
life.  At  long  intervals  ranch  houses  rose  above  embower- 
ing foliage,  a  green  core  in  the  midst  of  fields  where  the 
brown  earth  was  striped  with  lines  of  fruit  trees  or  hidden 
under  carpets  of  alfalfa.  To  the  west  the  foothills  rose 
in  indolent  curves,  tan-colored,  as  if  clothed  with  a 
leathern  hide.  Their  hollows  were  filled  with  the  darkness 
of  trees  huddled  about  hidden  streams,  ribbons  of  verdure 
that  wound  from  the  mountains  to  the  plain.  Farther 
still,  vision  faint,  remote  and  immaculate,  the  white  peaks 
of  the  Sierra  hung,  a  painting  on  the  drop  curtain  of  the 
sky. 

Across  the  landscape  a  parent  stem  of  road  wound, 

1 


Treasure  and  Trouble  Therewith 


branches  breaking  from  it  and  meandering  thread-small 
to  ranch  and  village.  It  was  white-dusted  here,  but  latei 
would  turn  red  and  crawl  upward  under  the  resinous  dim- 
ness of  pine  woods  to  where  the  mining  camps  clung  on 
the  lower  wall  of  the  Sierra.  Already  it  had  left  behind 
the  region  of  farms  in  neighborly  proximity  and  the  little 
towns  that  were  threaded  along  it  like  beads  upon  a 
string.  Watching  its  eastward  course,  one  would  have 
noticed  that  after  it  crested  the  first  rise  it  ran  free  of 
habitation  for  miles. 

Along  its  empty  length  a  dust  cloud  moved,  a  tarnish- 
ing spot  on  the  afternoon's  hard  brightness.  This  spot 
was  the  one  point  of  energy  in  the  universal  torpor, 
From  it  came  the  rhythmic  beat  of  flying  hoofs  and  the 
jingle  of  harness.  It  was  the  Rocky  Bar  stage,  up  from 
Shilo  through  Plymouth,  across  the  Mother  Lode  and 
then  in  a  steep,  straining  grade  on  to  Antelope  and  Rocky 
Bar,  camps  nestling  in  the  mountain  gorges.  It  was 
making  time  now  against  the  slow  climb  later,  the  four 
horses  racing,  the  reins  loose  on  their  backs. 

There  was  only  one  passenger;  the  others  had  been 
dropped  at  towns  along  the  route.  He  sat  on  the  front 
seat  beside  Jim  Bailey  the  driver,  his  feet  on  a  pine  box 
and  a  rifle  across  his  knees.  He  and  Jim  Bailey  knew 
each  other  well,  for  he  had  often  come  that  way,  always 
with  his  box  and  his  rifle.  He  was  Wells  Fargo's  mes- 
senger and  his  name  was  Danny  Leonard.  In  the  box  at 
his  feet  were  twelve  thousand  dollars  in  coin  to  be  deliv- 
ered that  night  to  the  Greenhide  Mine  at  Antelope. 

With  nothing  of  interest  in  sight,  talk  between  them 
was  desultory.  Jim  Bailey  thought  they'd  take  on  some 
men  at  Plymouth  when  they  stopped  there  to  victual  up. 
The  messenger,  squinting  at  the  swimming  yellow  dis- 
stance,  yawned  and  said  it  might  be  a  good  thing,  nobody 


Hands  Up 


knew  when  Knapp  and  Garland  would  get  busy  again. 
They'd  failed  in  the  holdup  of  the  Rockville  stage  last 
spring  and  it  was  about  time  to  hear  from  them— the 
road  after  you  passed  Plymouth  was  pretty  lonesome. 
Jim  Bailey  snorted  contemptuously  and  spat  over  the 
(dieel — he  guessed  Knapp  and  Garland  weren't  liable  to 
bother  him* 

After  this  the  conversation  dropped.  The  stifling  heat, 
the  whirling  dust  clouds  broken  by  whiffs  of  air,  dry  as 
From  a  kiln  and  impregnated  with  the  pungent  scent  of 
the  tarweed,  made  the  men  drowsy.  Jim  Bailey  nodded, 
the  reins  drawing  slack  between  his  fingers.  Leonard 
slipped  the  rifle  from  his  knees  to  the  floor  and  relaxed 
against  the  back  of  the  seat.  Through  half-shut  lids  he 
matched  the  whitened  crests  of  the  Sierra  brushed  on  the 
turquoise  sky. 

The  horses  clattered  down  a  gulley  and  galloped  across 
a,  wooden  bridge  that  spanned  a  dead  watercourse.  The 
ascent  was  steep  and  they  took  it  at  a  rush,  backs 
tmmped,  necks  stretched,  hoofs  clattering  among  loosened 
stones. 

A  sudden  breeze  carried  their  dust  ahead,  and  for  a 
moment  the  prospect  was  obscured,  the  trees  that  filled 
the  gulley,  bunched  at  the  summit  into  a  thicket,  just 
I  discernible  in  foggy  outline.  The  horses  had  gained  the 
j level,  Jim  Bailey,  who  knew  the  road  in  his  sleep,  had 
cheered  them  with  a  familiar  chirrup,  when  the  leaders 
stopped,  recoiling  in  a  clatter  of  slackened  harness  on 
the  wheelers.  The  stage  came  to  a  halt  so  violent  that 
Jim  Bailey  lurched  forward  against  the  splashboard,  the 
reins  jerked  out  of  his  hands.  He  did  not  know  what  had 
happened,  could  see  nothing  but  the  horses'  backs, 
jammed  together,  lines  and  traces  slapping  about  their 
flanks. 

3 


Treasure  and  Trouble  Therewith 

Afterward,  describing  it  at  Mormons  Landing,  he  lair 
it  all  to  the  dust.  In  that  first  moment  of  surprise  hi 
hadn't  made  out  the  men,  and  anyway  who'd  have  ed 
pected  it — on  the  open  road  in  the  full  of  the  afternoon 
You  couldn't  put  any  blame  on  him,  sprawled  on  hi 
knees,  the  whole  thing  coming  so  quick.  When  he  pickec) 
himself  up  he  looked  into  the  muzzle  of  a  revolver  and 
saw  behind  it  a  head,  only  the  eyes  showing  between  thj 
hat  brim  and  a  gunny  sack  tied  round  the  lower  part  o 
the  face. 

After  that  it  all  went  so  swift  you  couldn't  hardly  tell 
He  didn't  even  then  know  there  were  two  of  them — hearc 
the  feller  at  the  wheel  say,  "Hands  up,"  and  thought  thai 
was  all  there  was  to  it — when  the  one  at  the  horses'  heads 
fired.  Leonard  had  given  an  oath  and  reached  for  his 
gun,  and  right  with  that  the  report  came,  and  Leonard 
heaved  up  with  a  sort  of  grunt,  and  then  settled  and  was 
still.  The  other  feller  came  along  down  through  the  dust, 
and  Jim  Bailey,  paralyzed,  with  his  hands  up,  knew 
Knapp  and  Garland  had  got  him  at  last. 

The  one  at  the  wheel  kept  him  covered  while  the  other 
pulled  out  the  box.  He  could  see  him  plain,  all  but  his 
face,  a  big  powerful  chap,  shoulders  on  him  like  a  prize 
fighter's,  and  freckled  hands  covered  with  red  hair.  He 
got  the  box  out  with  a  jerk  and  dropped  it,  and  then, 
snatching  up  a  stick,  struck  the  near  wheeler  a  blow  on 
the  flank  and  jumped  back  into  the  bushes. 

The  horses  started,  mad,  like  they  were  locoed ;  it  was  a 
wonder  the  stage  wasn't  upset,  racing  this  way  and  that, 
up  the  bank  and  down  on  the  other  side.  Jim  Bailey 
crawled  out  on  the  axle,  picked  up  the  dragging  reins 
and  got  back  just  in  time  to  keep  Leonard  from  bouncing 
out.  He  heaved  him  up  and  held  him  round  the  body,  and 
when  he  got  the  horses  going  straight,  took  a  look  at  him. 

4 


Hands  Up 


That  first  time  he  thought  he  was  dead,  white  as  chalk 
and  with  his  eyes  turned  up.  But  after  a  spell  of  going 
he  decided  there  was  life  in  him  yet,  and  holding  him  with 
one  arm,  stretched  the  other  over  the  splashboard,  shak- 
ing the  reins  on  the  wheelers'  backs,  and  the  way  those 
horses  buckled  to  their  work  was  worth  gettin'  held  up 
to  see. 

Half  an  hour  later  the  Rocky  Bar  stage  came  like  a 
cyclone  into  Mormons  Landing,  Jim  Bailey  hopping  like 
a  grasshopper  on  the  front  seat,  and  on  his  arm  Danny 
Leonard,  shot  through  the  lung.  They  drew  up  in  front 
of  the  Damfino  Saloon,  and  Mormons  Landing,  dead 
among  its  deserted  ditches,  knew  again  a  crowded  hour 
of  glorious  life.  Everybody  came  running  and  lined  up 
along  the  sidewalk,  later  to  line  up  along  the  Damfino 
Bar.  The  widow  woman  who  ran  the  eating  house  put 
Danny  Leonard  in  her  own  bed  and  sent  one  of  her  sons, 
aged  six,  to  San  Marco  for  a  doctor,  and  the  other,  aged 
eight,  to  Jackson  for  the  sheriff. 

Before  night  fell  the  news  had  flashed  through  the 
countryside.  On  ranch  piazza  and  in  cabin  doorway,  in 
the  camps  along  the  Mother  Lode  and  the  villages  of  the 
plain,  men  were  telling  one  another  how  Knapp  and  Gar- 
land had  held  up  the  Rocky  Bar  stage  and  got  away  with 
twelve  thousand  dollars  in  gold. 


CHAPTER  II 

THE  TULES 


JTT^HE  place  of  the  holdup  was  on  the  first  upward 
roll  of  the  hills.  Farther  back,  along  more  dis- 
tant  slopes,  the  chaparral  spread  like  a  dark 
cloth  but  here  there  was  little  verdure.  The  rainless 
California  summer  had  scorched  the  country  ;  mounded 
summit  swelled  beyond  mounded  summit  all  dried  to  a 
uniform  ochre.  But  if  you  had  stood  on  the  rise  where 
the  stage  stopped  and  faced  toward  the  west,  you  would 
have  seen,  stretching  to  the  horizon,  a  green  expanse  that 
told  of  water. 

This  was  the  tules,  a  vast  spread  of  marsh  covered 
with  bulrushes,  flat  as  a  floor,  and  extending  from  a  dis- 
tant arm  of  the  bay  back  into  the  land.  It  was  like  a 
wedge  of  green  thrust  through  the  yellow,  splitting  it 
apart,  at  one  end  meeting  the  sky  in  a  level  line,  at  the 
other  narrowing  to  a  point  which  penetrated  the  bases 
of  the  hills.  From  these  streams  wound  down  ravine  and 
rift  till  their  currents  slipped  into  the  brackish  waters 
of  the  marsh.  Such  a  stream,  dried  now  to  a  few  stag- 
nant pools,  had  worn  a  way  along  the  gulley  where  the 
holdup  had  occurred. 

Down  this  gulley,  the  box  between  them,  the  bandits 
ran.  Alders  and  bay  grew  thick,  sun  spots  glancing 
through  their  leaves,  boughs  slapping  and  slashing  back 
from  the  passage  of  the  rushing  bodies,  stones  rolling 
under  the  flying  feet.  The  heat  was  suffocating,  the 
narrow  cleft  holding  it,  the  matted  foliage  keeping  out 

6 


The  Tules 


all  air.  The  men's  faces  were  empurpled,  the  gunny 
sacks  about  their  necks  were  soaked  with  sweat.  They 
spoke  little — a  grunt,  a  muttered  oath  as  a  stone  turned. 
Doubled  under  the  branches,  crashing  through  a  covert 
with  closed  eyes  and  warding  arm,  they  fled,  now  and 
then  pausing  for  a  quick  change  of  hands  on  the  box  or 
the  sweep  of  a  sleeve  across  a  dripping  brow.  Nearly  a 
half  hour  from  the  time  they  had  started  they  emerged 
into  brighter  light,  the  trees  growing  sparse,  the  earth 
moist,  a  soft  coolness  rising — the  creek's  conjunction 
with  the  tules. 

The  sun  was  sloping  westward,  the  sky  infinitely  blue 
and  clear,  golden  light  slanting  across  the  plain's  distant 
edges.  Before  them,  silent,  not  a  breath  stirring  the 
close-packed  growth,  stretched  the  marshes.  They  were 
miles  in  extent;  miles  upon  miles  of  these  level  bulrush 
spears  threaded  with  languid  streams,  streams  that  curved 
and  looped,  turned  back  upon  themselves,  narrowed  into 
gleaming  veins,  widened  to  miniature  lakes  on  whose 
bosom  the  clouds,  the  birds  and  the  stars  were  mirrored. 
They  were  like  a  crystal  inlay  covering  the  face  of  the 
tules  with  an  intricate,  shining  pattern.  No  place  was 
ever  more  deserted,  alien,  uninhabitable,  making  no  com- 
promise with  the  friendly,  fruitful  land. 

Against  the  muddy  edge  a  rotten  punt  holding  a  pole 
swung  deliberate  from  a  stake.  The  men  put  the  box  in, 
then  followed,  and  the  elder,  standing  in  the  stern,  took 
the  pole  and,  pushing  against  the  bank,  drove  the  boat 
into  deep  water.  It  floated  out,  two  ripples  folding  back 
oily  sleek  from  its  bow.  After  the  Indian  fashion,  the 
man  propelled  it  with  the  pole,  prodding  against  the  bot- 
tom. He  did  it  skillfully,  the  unwieldly  hulk  making  a 
slow,  even  progress.  He  also  did  it  with  a  singular  ab- 
sence of  sound,  the  pole  never  grating  on  the  gunnel, 

7 


Treasure  and  Trouble  Therewith 

feeling  quietly  along  the  soft  mud  of  the  shores,  risin, 
from  the  water,  held  suspended,  then  slipping  in  agai 
as  noiseless  as  the  dip  of  the  dragon  flies. 

No  words  passed  between  them.  Sliding  silent  ove 
the  silent  stream,  they  were  like  a  picture  done  in  a  fei 
strong  colors,  violent  green  of  the  rushes,  violent  blu 
of  the  sky.  Their  reflection  moved  with  them,  two  boat 
joining  at  the  water  line,  in  each  boat  two  figures,  ever; 
fold  of  their  garments,  every  shade  and  high  light 
minutely  and  dazzlingly  reproduced. 

Highwayman  is  a  word  of  picturesque  suggestion,  bu 
there  was  nothing  picturesque  about  them.  They  lookec 
like  laborers  weather-worn  from  wind  and  sun;  the  kinc 
of  men  that  crowd  the  streets  of  new  camps  and  stanc 
round  the  cattle  pens  at  country  fairs.  Knapp,  sitting 
in  the  bow,  was  younger  than  the  other — under  thirt} 
probably.  He  was  a  big-boned,  powerful  animal,  hi 
thick,  reddish  hair  growing  low  on  his  forehead,  his  face: 
with  its  wide  nose  and  prominent  jaw,  like  the  study  of  a 
face  left  in  the  rough.  In  his  stolid  look  there  was  some- 
thing childlike,  his  eyes  following  the  flight  of  a  bird  in 
the  air,  then  dropping  to  see  its  reflection  in  the 
water. 

Garland  was  older,  fully  fifty,  burly,  thickset,  strong 
as  an  ox.  His  hat  lay  in  the  bottom  of  the  boat  anc 
his  head,  covered  with  curly,  grizzled  hair,  was  broad 
and  well-shaped.  A  corresponding  grizzle  of  beard 
clothed  his  chin  and  fringed  a  straight  line  of  lip.  The! 
rest  of  his  face  showed  the  skin  sun-dried  and  lined  less 
from  age  than  a  life  in  the  open.  Wrinkles  radiated  from 
the  corners  of  his  eyes,  and  one,  like  a  fold  in  the  flesh, 
crossed  his  forehead  in  a  deep-cut  crease.  His  clothes 
were  of  the  roughest,  a  dirty  collarless  shirt  with  a  rag 
of  red  bandanna  round  the  neck,  a  coat  shapeless  and 

8 


The  Tules 


dusty,  and  overalls  grease  and  mud-smeared  with  the 
rubbing  of  his  hands.  His  boots  were  the  iron-hard 
clouts  of  the  rancher,  his  hat  a  broken  black  felt,  sweat- 
stained  and  torn.  Passing  him  on  the  road,  you  would 
have  set  him  down  as  a  farm  hand  out  of  a  job. 

The  boat  had  passed  beyond  the  shelter  of  the  hills  to 
where  the  tules  widened.  Pausing,  he  glanced  about. 
Far  to  the  right  he  could  see  a  small  white  square — the 
lodge  of  a  sportsman's  club  which  in  the  duck  shooting 
season  would  disgorge  men  and  dogs  into  the  marsh.  It 
was  closed  now,  but  on  the  plain  beyond  there  were 
ranches.  He  dropped  to  his  knees,  shipped  the  pole,  and 
drew  from  the  bottom  of  the  boat  a  piece  of  wood  roughly 
shaped  into  a  paddle.  Here  in  the  heart  of  the  tules, 
where  a  head  moving  over  the  bulrush  floor  might  be  dis- 
cerned, sound  would  not  carry  far.  He  dipped  in  the 
paddle,  the  long  spray  of  drops  hitting  the  water  with  a 
dry,  running  patter. 

The  man  in  front  moved  and  looked  ahead. 

"We'd  ought  to  be  near  there." 

"A  few  yards  over  to  the  right,"  came  the  answer,  and 
with  it  the  boat  took  a  sharp  turn  to  the  left,  nosing 
along  the  bank,  then  stole  down  a  waterway,  a  crystal 
channel  between  ramparts  of  green.  This  looped  at  a 
right  angle,  shone  with  a  sudden  glaze  of  sun,  slipped 
into  shadow  and,  rounding  a  point,  an  island  with  a  bare, 
oozy  edge  came  into  view. 

A  deep  stroke  of  the  paddle  sent  the  boat  forward,  its 
bow  burrowing  into  the  mud,  and  Knapp  jumped  out 
and  beached  it.  The  place  was  a  small  islet,  one  side 
clear,  a  wall  of  rushes,  thick  as  grass,  clothing  the  other. 
Over  the  water  line  the  earth  was  hard,  its  surface 
cracked  and  flaked  by  the  sun.  On  this  open  space  lay 
two  battered  kerosene  oil  cans,  their  tops  torn  away, 

9 


Treasure  and  Trouble  Therewith 

and  a  pile  of  stones.  The  hiding  place  was  not  a  new 
one  and  the  properties  were  already  prepared. 

With  a  knife  and  chisel  they  broke  open  the  box.  The 
money  was  in  small  canvas  sacks,  clean  as  if  never  used 
before  and  marked  with  a  stenciled  "W.  F.  &  Co."  They 
took  it  out  and  looked  at  it ;  hefted  its  weight  in  their 
hands.  It  represented  the  first  success  after  several 
failures,  one  brought  to  trial,  others  frustrated  in  the 
making  or  abandoned  after  warnings  from  the  ranchers 
and  obscure  townsfolk  who  stood  in  with  them.  Knapp 
had  been  discouraged.  Now  he  took  a  handful  and  spread 
it  on  his  palm,  golden  eagles,  heavy,  shining,  solid. 
Swaying  his  wrist,  he  let  the  sun  play  on  them,  strike 
glints  from  their  edges,  burnish  their  surface. 

"Twelve  thousand,"  he  murmured.  "We  ain't  but 
once  before  got  that  much." 

The  elder,  pulling  the  gunny  sack  from  his  neck, 
dropped  it  into  one  of  the  oil  cans,  pressing  it  against 
the  sides  like  a  lining. 

"I  can  get  the  ranch  now;  six  thousand'll  cover  every- 
thing." 

"Are  you  honestly  calculatin'  to  do  that?"  Knapp 
had  reached  for  the  other  can.  With  arm  outstretched, 
he  looked  at  Garland,  gravely  curious. 

"I  am.  I  told  you  so  before.  I  had  a  look  at  it  again 
last  week.  They'll  sell  for  four  thousand,  and  it'll 
take  five  hundred  to  put  it  into  shape.  I'll  bank  the 
rest." 

"And  you'll  quit?" 

"Certain.    I've  had  enough  of  the  road." 

The  younger  man  pondered,  watching  the  hands  of  his 
partner  fitting  the  money  bags  into  the  can.  "Mebbe  you 
got  the  right  idea,"  he  muttered. 

"It's  the  right  idea  for  me.  I'm  not  what  I  once  was, 

10 


The  Tules 


I'm  old.  It's  time  for  me  to  lay  off  and  rest.  I  can't 
keep  this  up  forever  and  now  I  got  the  chance  to  get 
out  and  I'm  goin'  to." 

He  had  filled  his  can  and  rose,  taking  off  his  coat  and 
throwing  it  on  the  ground.  Picking  up  the  knife  and 
chisel  he  went  back  to  where  the  bulrushes  began  and 
crushed  in  among  them.  Knapp,  packing  the  other  can, 
could  hear  the  sound  of  his  heavy  movements,  the  hack- 
ing of  the  knife  at  the  bulrush  stalks  and  then  the  thud 
of  falling  earth.  When  he  had  filled  his  can  he  saw  that 
there  were  two  sacks  left  over.  He  took  them  up  and, 
looking  about,  caught  sight  of  a  newspaper  protruding 
from  the  pocket  of  Garland's  coat.  He  pulled  it  out,  call- 
ing as  he  did  so : 

"There's  two  sacks  I  can't  get  in.  I'm  goin'  to  put 
'em  in  this  here  paper  you  got." 

A  grunt  of  acquiescence  came  from  the  bulrushes,  the 
hacking  of  the  knife,  the  thuds  going  on.  Knapp  unfolded 
the  paper,  set  the  sacks  in  it,  and,  gathering  it  about 
them,  placed  it  on  the  top  of  his  can.  He  heaved  the  whole 
up  and  crashed  through  the  rushes  to  where  Garland  had 
already  cleared  a  space  and  was  digging  a  hole  in  the 
mud.  When  it  was  finished,  the  cans — the  newspaper 
bundle  on  top — were  lowered  into  it,  and  earth  and  roots 
replaced.  No  particular  attempt  was  made  at  conceal- 
ment; the  cache  was  as  secure  against  intrusion  as  if  it 
were  on  the  crest  of  the  Sierra,  and  within  the  week  they 
would  be  back  to  empty  it.  The  box  was  filled  with 
stones  and  sunk  in  the  stream. 

Then  they  rested,  prone  on  the  ground,  at  first  talk- 
ing a  little.  There  was  a  question  about  the  messenger; 
Knapp  had  shot  and  was  casually  confident  he  had  only 
winged  him.  The  matter  seemed  to  give  him  no  anxiety, 
and  presently,  his  head  burrowed  into  his  arm,  he  fell 

11 


Treasure  and  Trouble  Therewith 

asleep,  a  great,  sprawled  figure  with  the  sun  making  his 
red  hair  shine  like  a  copper  helmet. 

Garland  lay  on  his  back,  his  coat  for  a  pillow,  smok- 
ing a  blackened  pipe  and  thinking.  He  saw  the  sky  lose 
its  blue,  and  fade  to  a  thin,  whitish  transparency,  then 
flush  to  rose,  bird  specks  skimming  across  it.  He  saw 
the  tules  grow  dark,  black  walls  flanking  paths  incredibly 
glossy,  catching  here  and  there  a  barring  of  golden  cloud. 
He  felt  the  breath  of  the  marshes  chill  and  salt-tainted, 
and  watched  the  first  star,  white  as  a  diamond,  prick 
through  the  vault. 

Then  he  rose  and  shook  his  partner,  waking  him  with 
voluble  profanity.  The  night  had  come,  the  dark  that 
was  to  hide  their  stealthy  exit.  They  went  different 
ways ;  Knapp  by  a  series  of  trails  and  planks  to  the 
south  bank  and  thence  across  country,  footing  it 
through  the  night  to  his  lair  near  Stockton.  Garland 
would  move  north  to  friends  of  his  up  toward  the  mining 
camps  along  the  Feather.  They  made  a  rendezvous  for 
a  night  six  days  distant.  Then  they  would  carry  away 
the  money  to  places  of  safety  which  they  went  to  pre- 
pare. 

The  sky  was  star-strewn  as  Garland's  punt  slipped 
away  from  the  island.  It  was  intensely  still,  a  whisper 
of  water  round  the  moving  prow,  the  sibilant  dip  of  the 
paddle  the  only  sounds.  He  could  see  the  water  as  a 
pale,  winding  shimmer  ahead,  dotted  with  star  reflections 
like  small,  scattered  flowers.  Once,  rising  to  make  sure 
of  his  course,  he  saw  the  tiny  yellow  light  in  a  ranch 
house  far  away.  He  stood  for  a  moment  looking  at  it, 
and  when  he  crouched  again  the  light  had  kindled  his 
imagination.  Its  spark  glowed  wide  till  it  showed  the 
ranch  kitchen,  windows  open  to  the  blue  night,  earth 
smells  floating  in,  the  table  with  its  kerosene  lamp,  the 


The  Tules 


rancher  reading  the  paper,  his  dog  sleeping  at  his  feet, 
peaceful,  unguarded,  secure. 

Conscious  of  distance  to  be  traversed  before  he  be- 
came a  creature  of  wary  instincts  and  watchful  eyes,  he 
let  his  thoughts  have  way.  They  slipped  about  and 
touched  the  future  with  a  sense  of  ease,  then  veered 
to  the  past.  Here  they  steadied,  memories  rising  photo- 
graphically distinct  like  a  series  of  pictures,  detached  yet 
revealing  an  underlying  thread  of  connection : 

First  it  was  his  youth  in  the  Southwest  when  he  had 
been  Tom  Michaels,  a  miner,  well  paid,  saving  his  wages. 
Then  his  marriage  with  Juana  Ramirez,  the  half-breed 
girl  at  Deming,  and  the  bit  of  land  he  had  bought — with 
a  mortgage  to  pay — in  the  glaring,  green  river  valley. 
Glimpses  of  their  life  there,  children  and  work — stupefy- 
ing, tremendous  work — to  keep  them  going  and  to  meet 
the  interest;  he  had  been  a  giant  in  those  days. 

And  even  so  he  hadn't  been  able  to  do  it.  Six  years 
after  they  took  possession  they  moved  out,  ruined.  He 
remembered  it  as  if  it  had  been  yesterday — the  adobe 
house  with  its  flat  roof  and  strings  of  red  peppers  hang- 
ing on  the  walls,  the  cart  piled  high  with  furniture,  Juana 
on  the  front  seat  and  Pancha  astride  of  the  mule.  Juana 
had  grown  old  in  those  six  years,  fat  and  shapeless,  but 
she  had  been  dog-loyal,  dog-loving,  his  woman.  Never  a 
word  of  complaint  out  of  her — even  when  the  two  children 
died  she  had  just  covered  her  head  with  the  blanket  and 
sat  by  the  hearth,  stoical,  dry-eyed,  silent. 

He  could  see  now  that  it  was  his  dream  of  making 
money — big  money — that  had  been  wrong.  If  he'd  been 
content  with  a  wage  and  a  master  he'd  have  done  better 
by  her,  but  from  the  start  he'd  wanted  his  freedom, 
balked  at  being  roped  and  branded  with  the  herd.  That 
was  why  he  drifted  back  to  mining,  not  a  steady  job, 

13 


Treasure  and  Trouble  Therewith 

though  he  could  have  got  it,  but  as  a  prospector,  leaving 
Arizona  and  moving  to  California.  There  were  years  of 
it;  he  knew  the  mineral  belt  from  the  Panamint  moun- 
tains to  the  Kootenai  country.  Juana  and  Pancha 
plodded  from  town  to  town,  seeing  him  at  intervals,  al- 
ways expecting  to  hear  he'd  struck  "the  ledge,"  and  he 
hardly  able  to  scrape  a  living  for  them  from  the  bottom 
of  his  pan. 

One  picture  stood  out  clearer  than  the  rest,  inefface- 
able, to  be  carried  to  his  grave — the  day  he  came  back 
and  heard  that  Juana  was  dead.  He  had  left  them  at  a 
place  in  Inyo,  a  scattering  of  houses  on  the  edge  of  the 
desert.  Pancha  saw  him  coming,  and  her  figure,  racing 
to  meet  him  in  a  blown  flutter  of  cotton  skirt,  was  as 
plain  before  his  eyes  as  if  she  were  running  toward  him 
now  along  the  shining  water  path.  She  was  twelve, 
brown  as  a  nut,  and  scarecrow-thin,  with  a  tangle  of 
black  hair,  and  narrow,  dark  eyes.  He  could  recall  the 
feel  of  her  little  hard  hand  inside  his  as  she  told  him, 
excited  at  imparting  such  news,  pushing  the  hair  off  her 
dirty  face  to  see  how  he  took  it. 

It  had  crushed  the  heart  in  him  and  some  upholding 
principle  of  hope  and  resolution  broke.  He  found  a 
place  for  Pancha  with  Maria  Lopez,  the  Mexican  woman 
who  ran  the  Buon  Gusto  restaurant  at  Bakersfield  and 
agreed  to  look  after  the  girl  for  pay.  Then  he  went 
back  to  the  open,  not  caring  much,  the  springs  of  his 
soul  gone  dry.  He  had  no  energy  for  the  old  life  and 
did  other  things,  anything  to  make  his  own  food  and 
Pancha's  keep — herded  sheep,  helped  on  the  cattle 
ranges,  tended  store,  hung  on  the  fringes  of  the  wilder- 
ness, saw  men  turn  to  savages  and  turned  himself. 

At  long  intervals  he  went  down  to  the  settlements  and 
saw  Pancha,  growing  into  a  gawky  girl,  headstrong,  and 


The  Tules 


with  the  wildness  of  her  mother's  people  cropping  out. 
She  hated  Maria  Lopez  and  the  work  in  the  restaurant 
and  wanted  him  to  take  her  to  the  mountains.  When 
she  was  sixteen  a  spell  of  illness  laid  him  up  and  after 
that  he  had  difficulty  in  getting  work.  Two  months 
passed  without  a  payment  and  when  he  finally  got  down 
to  Bakersfield  he  found  that  Pancha  had  gone,  run  away 
with  a  traveling  company  of  actors.  Maria  Lopez  and 
he  had  a  fight,  raged  at  one  another  in  mutual  fury,  and 
then  he  started  out  to  find  his  girl,  not  knowing  when 
he  did  what  he  would  do  with  her. 

She  solved  that  problem;  she  insisted  on  staying  with 
the  actors.  She  liked  the  life,  she  could  sing,  they  told 
her  she  had  a  future.  She  had  fixed  and  settled  every- 
thing, even  to  her  name;  she  would  retain  that  of  Lopez, 
which  she  was  already  known  by  in  Bakersfield.  There 
was  nothing  for  it  but  to  let  her  have  her  way;  a  man 
without  home,  money  or  prospects  has  no  authority. 
But  the  sense  of  his  own  failure,  of  the  hopelessness  of 
his  desire  to  shelter  and  enrich  her,  fell  on  his  conscience 
like  a  foot  on  a  spark  and  crushed  it  out.  He  returned 
to  the  mountains,  his  hand  against  all  men,  already  an 
outlaw,  love  for  his  own  all  that  was  left  of  the  original 
man.  That  governed  him,  gave  him  the  will  to  act, 
stimulated  his  brain,  and  lent  his  mind  an  unfailing  cun- 
ning. The  meeting  with  Knapp  crystallized  into  a  part- 
nership, but  when  Garland  the  bandit  rose  on  the  hori- 
zon, no  one,  least  of  all  Pancha,  knew  he  was  Michaels 
the  miner. 

He  stood  up  in  the  boat  and  again  reconnoitered ;  he 
was  near  the  shore.  The  country  slept  under  the  stars, 
gray  rollings  of  hills  and  black  blotches  of  trees,  very 
still  in  its  somber  repose.  Dropping  back  to  the  seat,  he 

15 


Treasure  mid  Trouble  Therewith 

plied  the  paddle  with  extraordinary  softness,  wary,  listen- 
ing, alert.  Soon,  in  a  week  or  two,  if  he  could  settle  the 
sale,  he  would  be  on  his  way  to  San  Francisco  to  tell 
Pancha  he  had  sold  his  claim  at  last  and  had  bought  the 
ranch.  Under  his  caution  the  pleasure  of  this  thought 
pervaded  him  with  an  exquisite  satisfaction.  He  could 
not  forbear  its  indulgence  and,  leaning  on  the  paddle, 
allowed  himself  a  last,  delightful  vision — the  ranch  house 
piazza  with  Pancha — her  make-up  off — sitting  on  the 
steps  at  his  feet. 

That  night  he  slept  in  the  cowshed  of  an  abandoned 
ranch.  A  billet  of  wood  under  his  head,  his  repose  was 
deep  and  dreamless,  but  in  the  dawn's  light  he  woke, 
suddenly  called  out  of  slumber  by  a  thought.  It  floated 
on  the  surface  of  his  consciousness,  vaguely  disturbing, 
then  took  slow  shape  and  he  sat  up  feeling  in  the  pockets 
of  his  coat.  The  paper  was  gone ;  Knapp  saying  he  had 
taken  it  was  not  a  dream.  For  a  space  he  sat,  coming 
to  clearer  recollection,  his  partner's  voice  calling,  vaguely 
heard,  its  request  unheeded  in  his  preoccupation.  He 
gave  a  mutter  of  relief,  and  dropping  back  settled  him- 
self into  comfort.  The  paper  was  as  safe  there  as  in  his 
own  pocket  and  he'd  have  it  again  inside  of  a  week.  With 
the  first  light  in  his  eyes,  the  first  drowsy  twitterings  of 
birds  in  his  ears,  he  lapsed  off  again  for  another  hour. 


CHAPTER  III 

MARQUIS  DE  LAFAYETTE 

A  FEW  miles  below  where  the  stage  was  held  up  a 
branch  road  breaks  from  the  main  highway  and 
cuts  off  at  right  angles  across  the  plain.     This 
is   a   ranchers'   road.     If  you   follow  it   southward   you 
come  to  the  region  of  vast  holdings,  acres   of  trees  in 
parallel  lines  as  straight  as  if  laid  with  a  tape  measure, 
great,  fawn-colored  fields,  avenues  of  palm  and  oleander 
leading  to  white  houses  where  the  balconies  have  striped 
awnings  and  people  sit  in  cushioned  wicker  chairs. 

The  other  end  of  it  runs  through  lands  of  decreasing 
cultivation  till — after  it  passes  Tito  Murano's  cottage — 
it  dips  to  the  tules  and  that's  the  end  of  it.  To  be  sure, 
a  trail — a  horse  path — breaks  away  and  makes  a  detour 
round  the  head  of  the  marshes,  but  this  is  seldom  used, 
a  bog  in  winter  and  in  summer  riven  with  dried  water- 
courses and  overgrown  with  brambles.  To  get  around 
the  tules  comfortably  you  have  to  strike  farther  in  and 
that's  a  long  way. 

The  last  house  before  you  get  to  Tito  Murano's,  which 

doesn't  count,  is  the  Burrage  Ranch.     In  the  white  man- 

|  sions  among  the  fruit  trees  the  Burrage  Ranch  doesn't 

|  count  much  either.     It  is  old  and  small,  fifty  acres,  a 

•  postage  stamp  of  a  ranch.     There  is  no  avenue  to  the 

house,  which  is  close  to  the  road  behind  a  picket  fence, 

and  instead  of  encircling  balconies  and  striped  awnings, 

it  has  one  small  porch  with  a  sagging  top,  over  which 

climbs  a  rose  that  stretches  long  festoons  to  the  gable. 

17 


Treasure  and  Trouble  Therewith 

In  its  yard  grow  two  majestic  live  oaks,  hoary  gian 
with  silvered  limbs  reaching  out  in  a  thick-leaved  canop 
and  casting  a  great  spread  of  shade. 

Old  Man  Burrage  had  had  the  ranch  a  long  time 
they  reckon  time  in  California.  In  his  youth  he  had  seel 
the  great  epoch  in  Virginia  City,  figured  in  it  in  a  hum 
ble  capacity,  and  emerged  from  its  final  debacle  wit) 
twenty  thousand  dollars.  He  should  have  emerged  wit) 
more  and  that  he  didn't  made  him  chary  of  mining.  Peacj 
and  security  exerted  their  appeal,  and  after  looking  abou 
for  a  few  reflective  years,  he  had  married  the  pretties 
waitress  in  the  Golden  Nugget  Hotel  in  Placerville  am 
settled  down  to  farming.  He  had  settled  and  settle< 
hard,  settled  like  a  barnacle,  so  firm  and  fast  that  he  hac 
never  been  able  to  pull  himself  loose.  Peace  he  had  founc 
but  also  poverty.  If  the  mineral  vein  was  capricious,  sc 
were  the  elements,  insect  pests  and  the  fruit  market 
Thirty  years  after  he  had  bought  the  ranch  he  was  stil 
there  and  still  poor  with  his  wife  Mary  Ellen,  his  daughter 
Sadie  and  his  son  Mark. 

Mark's  advent  had  followed  the  decease  of  two  older 
boys  and  his  mother  had  proclaimed  his  preciousness  by 
christening  him  Marquis  de  Lafayette.  Her  other  sons 
had  borne  the  undistinguished  appellations  of  relatives, 
but  this  one,  her  consolation  and  her  Benjamin,  would 
be  decked  with  the  flower  of  her  fancy.  Of  the  original 
bearer  of  the  name  she  knew  nothing.  Waiting  on  table 
at  the  Golden  Nugget  and  later  bearing  children  and 
helping  on  the  ranch  had  not  left  her  time  for  historical 
study.  When  her  son,  waking  to  the  blight  she  had  so 
innocently  put  upon  him,  asked  her  where  she  had  found 
the  name,  she  had  answered,  "In  a  book,"  but  beyond  that 
could  give  no  data.  When,  unable  to  bear  his  shame,  he 
had  abbreviated  it  to  "Mark  D.  L."  she  had  been  hurt. 

18 


Marquis  de  Lafayette 


Otherwise  he  had  not  disappointed  her.  When  she 
lad  crowned  him  with  a  title  she  had  felt  that  a  high 
lestiny  awaited  him  and  the  event  proved  it.  After  a 
pouth  on  the  ranch,  Mark,  at  sixteen,  grew  restive,  at 
jeventeen  announced  that  he  wanted  an  education  and  at 
ughteen  packed  his  grip  and  went  to  work  his  way 
,hrough  Stanford  University.  Old  Man  Burrage  made 
limself  a  bore  at  the  crossroads  store  and  the  county  fair 
;elling  how  his  boy  was  waiting  on  table  down  to  Stanford 
ind  doing  typewriting  nights.  Some  boy,  that ! 

When  Mark  came  home  on  his  vacations  it  was  like 
he  return  of  Ulysses  after  his  ten  years'  wandering — 
hey  couldn't  look  at  him  enough,  or  get  enough  time 
1  o  listen.     His  grammar  was  straightened  out,  his  chin 
i  mooth,  the   freckles   gone   from  his   hands,  and  yet  he 
|  ras  just  the  same — no  fancy  frills  about  him,  Old  Man 
\  Jurrage   bragged   to   his   cronies.      And   then   came   the 
!  oping  stone — he  told  them  he  was  going  to  be  a  lawyer. 
'  iome  of  the  neighbors  laughed  but  others  grew  thought- 
ill  and  nodded  commendingly.     Even  on  the  balconies  of 
he  white  houses  in  the  wicker  chairs  under  the  awnings 
lark  and  his  aspirations  drew  forth  interested  comment, 
lost  of  these  people  had  known  him  since  he  was  a  shock- 
eaded,  barefoot  kid,  and  when  they  saw  him  in  his  store 
lothes  and  heard  his  purified  grammar,  they  realized  that 
jr  youth  in  California  belongs  the  phrase  "the  world  is 
My  oyster." 

Now  Mark  had  graduated  and  was  studying  in  a  large 
iw  office  in  San  Francisco.  He  was  paid  twenty  dollars 
week,  was  twenty-four  years  old,  rather  silent,  five-feet- 
?n  and  accounted  good-looking.  At  the  time  this  story 
pens  he  was  spending  his  vacation — pushed  on  to  the 
immer's  end  by  a  pressure  of  work  in  the  office — on  the 
inch  with  his  parents. 

19 


Treasure  and  Trouble  Therewith 

It  was  late  afternoon,  on  the  day  following  the  holdup: 
and  he  was  sitting  in  the  barn  doorway  milking  the  browi 
cow.  The  doorway  was  shadowed,  the  blackness  of  th 
barn's  interior  behind  it,  the  scent  of  clean  hay  drifting 
out  and  mingling  with  the  scents  of  baked  earth  and  tari 
weed  that  came  from  the  heated  fields.  With  his  cheel 
against  the  cow's  side  he  could  see  between  the  lowe: 
limbs  of  the  oaks  the  country  beyond,  rust-colored  an(| 
tan,  streaked  with  blue  shadows  and  the  mottled  black 
ness  below  the  trees.  Turning  a  little  further  he  coult 
look  down  the  road  with  the  eucalyptus  tall  on  eithe] 
side,  the  yellow  path  barred  by  their  shade.  From  th< 
house  came  a  good  smell  of  hot  bread  and  a  sound  o;| 
voices — Mother  and  Sadie  were  getting  ready  for  sup- 
per. At  intervals  Mother's  face,  red  and  round  belo^| 
her  sleeked,  gray  hair,  her  spectacles  up,  her  dress  turnec 
in  at  the  neck,  appeared  at  the  window  to  take  a  refresh- 
ing peep  at  her  boy  milking  the  brown  cow. 

The  milk  sizzed  and  foamed  in  the  pail  and  the  milker, 
his  forehead  against  the  cow's  warm  pelt,  watched  it  rise 
on  the  tin's  side.  It  made  a  loud  drumming  which  pre- 
vented his  hearing  a  hail  from  the  picket  fence.  The  hail 
came  again  in  a  husky,  dust-choked  voice: 

"Hello,  can  you  give  me  a  drink?" 

This  time  Mark  heard  and  wheeled  on  the  stool.  -A 
tramp  was  leaning  against  the  fence  looking  at  him. 

Tramps  are  too  familiar  in  California  for  curiosity  01 
interest,  also  they  are  unpopular.  They  have  don€ 
dreadful  things — lonely  women  in  outlying  farms  have 
guns  and  dogs,  the  one  loaded,  the  other  cultivated  in 
savagery  against  the  visits  of  the  hobo. 

Mark  rose  unwelcoming,  but  the  fellow  did  look  miser- 
able. He  was  gaunt  and  dirty,  long  ragged  locks  of  hair 
falling  below  the  brim  of  his  torn  straw  hat,  an  unkempt 

20 


Marquis  de  Lafayette 


straggle  of  beard  growing  up  his  cheeks.  His  clothes 
hung  loose  on  his  lean  frame,  and  he  looked  all  the  same 
color,  dust-brown,  his  hair,  his  shirt,  his  coat,  even  his 
face,  the  tan  lying  dark  over  a  skin  that  was  sallow. 
Only  his  eyes  struck  a  different  note.  They  were  gray, 
very  clear  in  the  sun-burned  face,  the  lids  long  and  heavy. 
Their  expression  interested  Mark;  it  was  not  the  stone- 
hard,  evil  look  of  the  outcast  man,  but  one  of  an  un- 
ashamed, smoldering  resentment. 

The  same  quality  was  in  his  manner.  The  request  for 
water  was  neither  fawningly  nor  piteously  made.  It  was 
surly,  a  right  churlishly  demanded.  Mark  moved  to  the 
pump  and  filled  the  glass  standing  there.  The  tramp 
leaning  on  the  pickets  looked  at  him,  his  glance  travel- 
ing morose  over  the  muscular  back  and  fine  shoulders, 
the  straight  nape,  the  dark  head  with  its  crown  of  thick, 
coarse  hair.  As  Mark  advanced  with  the  glass  he  con- 
tinued his  scrutiny,  when,  suddenly  meeting  the  young 
man's  eyes,  his  own  shifted  and  he  said  in  that  husky 
voice,  hoarse  from  a  parched  throat: 

"It's  the  devil  walking  in  the  heat  on  these  rotten  dusty 
roads." 

The  other  nodded  and  handed  him  the  glass.  He 
drained  it,  tilting  his  head  till  the  sinews  in  his  haggard 
throat  showed  below  his  beard.  Then  he  handed  it  back 
with  a  muttered  thanks. 

"Been  walking  far?"  said  Mark. 

The  tramp  moved  away  from  the  pickets,  jerking  his 
head  toward  the  road  behind  him.  For  the  first  time 
Mark  noticed  that  he  had  a  basket  on  his  arm,  contain- 
ing a  folded  blanket. 

"From  the  fruit  farms  down  there.  I've  been  working 
my  way  up  fruit  picking.  But  it's  a  dog's  job;  better 
starve  while  you're  about  it.  Thank  you.  So  long." 


Treasure  and  Trouble  Therewith 

It  was  evident  he  wanted  no  further  parley,  for  he 
started  off  down  the  road.  Mark  stood  looking  after 
him.  He  noticed  that  he  was  tall  and  walked  with  a 
long  stride,  not  the  lazy  shuffle  of  the  hobo.  Also  he  had 
caught  a  quality  of  education  in  the  husky  voice.  Under 
its  coarsened  inflections  there  was  an  echo  of  something 
cultured,  not  fitting  with  his  present  appearance,  a  voice 
that  might  once  have  known  very  different  conditions. 
Possibly  a  dangerous  chap,  Mark  thought;  had  an  ugly 
look,  a  secret,  forbidding  sort  of  face.  When  the  edu- 
cated kind  dropped  they  were  apt  to  fall  further  and 
come  down  harder  than  the  others.  He  threw  the  glass 
into  the  bushes  and  went  in  to  wash  up.  Before  he  was 
called  to  supper  he  had  forgotten  all  about  the  man. 

In  the  cool  of  the  evening  the  Burrages  sat  on  the 
porch,  rather  crowded  for  the  space  was  small.  Mark, 
on  the  bottom  step,  smoked  a  pipe  and  watched  the 
eucalyptus  leaves  printed  in  pointed  black  groupings 
against  the  Prussian-blue  sky.  This  was  the  time  when 
the  family,  released  from  its  labors,  sat  back  comfort- 
ably and  listened  to  the  favored  one  while  he  told  of  the 
city  by  the  sea.  Old  Man  Burrage  had  a  way  of  sud- 
denly asking  questions  about  people  he  had  known  in  the 
brave  days  of  the  Comstock,  some  dead  now,  others  trail- 
ing clouds  of  glory  eastward  this  many  years. 

Tonight  he  was  minded  to  hear  about  the  children  of 
George  Alston  whom  Mark  had  met.  Long  ago  in  Vir- 
ginia City  Old  Man  Burrage  had  often  seen  George 
Alston,  talked  with  him  when  he  was  manager  of  the 
Silver  Queen  and  one  of  the  big  men  of  that  age  of 
giants.  Mother  piped  up  there — she  wasn't  going  to  be 
beaten.  Many's  the  time  she'd  waited  on  George  Alston 
when  he  and  the  others  would  come  riding  over  the 
Sierras  on  their  long-tailed  horses — a  bunch  of  them 


Marquis  de  Lafayette 


together  galloping  into  Placerville  like  the  Pony  Express 
coming  into  Sacramento. 

"And  some  of  'em,"  said  the  old  woman,  rocking  in 
easeful  reminiscence,  "would  be  as  fresh  with  me  as  if  I'd 
given  'em  encouragement.  But  George  Alston,  never — 
he'd  treat  me  as  respectful  as  if  I  was  the  first  lady  in 
the  land.  Halting  behind  to  have  a  neighborly  chat  and 
the  rest  of  them  throwin'  their  money  on  the  table  and 
off  through  the  dining  room  hollerin'  for  their  horses." 

Her  son,  on  the  lower  step,  stirred  as  if  uncomfort- 
able. These  memories,  once  prone  to  rouse  a  tender 
amusement,  now  carried  their  secret  sting. 

"He  was  the  real  thing,"  the  farmer  gravely  com- 
nented.  "There  wasn't  many  like  him." 

Sadie,  who  was  not  interested  in  a  man  dead  ten  years 
igo,  pushed  the  conversation  on  to  her  own  genera- 
tion. 

"His  daughters  are  grown  up.  They  must  be  young 
adies  now." 

Mark  answered: 

"Yes — Miss  Chrystie's  just  eighteen,  came  of  age  this 
iummer.  The  other  one's  a  few  years  older." 

"Up  in  Virginia,"  said  the  farmer,  "George  Alston  was 
i  bachelor.  Every  woman  was  out  with  her  lariat  after 
lim  but  he  give  'em  all  the  slip.  And  afterward,  when 
le  went  back  East  to  see  his  folks,  a  little  girl  in  his 
lome  town  got  him — a  girl  a  lot  younger  than  him.  She 
lied  after  a  few  years." 

There  was  regret  in  his  tone,  not  so  much  for  the  un- 
imely  demise  of  the  lady  as  for  the  fact  that  George; 
Uston  had  not  found  his  mate  in  California. 

"What  are  they  like?"  said  Sadie— "pretty?" 

Mark  had  his  back  toward  her.  She  could  see  the 
hape  of  it,  pale  in  its  light-colored  shirt,  against  the 


Treasure  and  Trouble  Therewith 

dark  filigree  of  shrubs  at  the  bottom  of  the  steps.  Hi 
answer  sounded  indifferent  between  puffs  of  his  pipe: 

"Yes,  I  guess  so.  Miss  Chrystie's  a  big,  fine  sort  c 
girl,  with  yellow  hair  and  lots  of  color.  She's  nearly  a 
tall  as  I  am.  The  other,  Miss  Lorry — well,  she's  small. 

"They'd  ought  to  have  a  heap  of  money,"  said  th 
farmer.  "But  when  he  died  I  heard  he  hadn't  cut  up  a 
rich  as  you'd  think.  Folks  said  he  was  too  honest." 

"They've  got  enough — four  hundred  thousand  each. 

"Well,  well,  well,"  said  Mother  with  a  lazy  laugl 
"that'd  do  me:9 

Her  husband  wouldn't  have  it. 

"Lord,  that's  small  for  him,"  he  mourned.  "But  Fi 
not  surprised.  He  wouldn't  V  stood  for  what  some  c 
the  rest  of  'em  did." 

"Is  the  house  grand?"  asked  Sadie. 

"I  suppose  it  is;  it's  big  enough,  lots  of  bay  window 
and  rooms  and  piazzas.  It's  on  Pine  Street,  near  towi 
with  a  garden  round  it  full  of  palms  and  trees." 

"Do  they  have  parties  there?" 

"No — at  least  I  never  heard  of  any.  They're  quie 
sort  of  girls,  don't  go  out  much.  Just  live  there  wit 
an  old  lady — Mrs.  Tisdale — some  relative  of  thei 
mother's." 

Sadie  was  disappointed.  Having  been  led  to  expec 
so  much  from  these  children  of  wealth,  she  felt  cheats 
and  was  inclined  to  criticize.  She  rather  grumbled  abou 
their  being  so  quiet.  Mother  disagreed: 

"It  sounds  as  if  they  were  nice  and  genteel.  Not  th 
flashy,  fashionable  kind.  And  their  mother  dying  whe 
they  were  so  young — that  makes  a  difference." 

"It  was  Crowder  got  you  acquainted  with  them?"  sai 
the  old  man. 

Charlie  Crowder  was  a  college  chum  of  Mark's  wh< 

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Marquis  de  Lafayette 


had  spent  several  vacations  on  the  ranch  and  who  was 
regarded  by  the  Burrages  as  a  fount  of  wisdom.  Mark 
from  the  steps  said  yes,  Crowder  had  taken  him  to  the 
house. 

There  was  a  pause  after  this,  the  parents  sunk  in 
gratified  musings.  The  farmer,  the  simple,  unaspiring 
male,  saw  no  further  than  the  fact  of  Mark  a  guest  in 
George  Alston's  home,  but  Mother  had  far-reaching 
fancies,  glimpsed  future  possibilities.  It  was  she  who 
broke  the  silence,  observing  casually  as  if  all  doors  must 
be  open  to  her  brilliant  son, 

"I'm  glad  you  know  them,  honey.  There's  no  better 
companions  for  a  young  man  making  his  way,  than  quiet, 
refined  girls." 

Sadie  saw  it  as  astonishing.  She  could  hardly  encom- 
pass the  thought  of  her  brother,  a  few  years  ago  work- 
ing on  the  ranch  like  a  hired  man,  now  moving  in  the 
glittering  spheres  that  she  read  about  in  the  Sunday  edi- 
tion of  the  Sacramento  Courier. 

"Do  you  go  there  often?"  she  asked. 

"Oh,  now  and  again.     I  haven't  much  time  for  calling." 

It  was  Mark  who  turned  the  conversation,  difficult  at 
first.  The  farmer  was  tractable,  but  Mother  and  Sadie 
showed  a  tendency  to  cling  to  the  Alston  sisters.  He 
finally  diverted  their  attention  by  telling  them  about 
Pancha  Lopez,  the  greaser  girl,  who  was  the  new  leading 
woman  at  the  Albion  Opera  House,  and  a  friend  of 
Charlie  Crowder's.  Mother  forgot  the  Alstons. 

"You  don't  know  Tier,  do  you,  Mark?"  she  said  un- 
easily. 

"No,  Mother,  I've  only  seen  her  act." 

The  farmer  stirred  and  rumbled  warningly  out  of  the 
darkness, 

"And  you  don't  want  to,  son.  A  hard-working  boy 

25 


Treasure  and  Trouble  Therewith 

don't  want  to  waste  his  time  lallygaggin'  round  with 
actresses." 

When  they  dispersed  for  the  night,  Mother  noticed 
that  Mark  was  abstracted,  almost  as  if  he  was  depressed. 
No  one  else  saw  it ;  eyes  and  tongues  were  heavy  at  bed- 
time on  the  ranch.  Sadie,  dragging  up  the  stairs  to  be 
awake  tomorrow  at  sunrise,  might  have  been  depressed  but 
she  wasn't.  And  the  farmer  and  his  wife,  creaking  about 
in  their  stuffy  room  over  the  kitchen,  their  old  bones  stiff 
with  fatigue,  were  elated. 

A  part  of  the  attic,  lighted  by  one  window  in  the  gable, 
had  been  Mark's  den  since  he  was  eight.  Here  was  the 
table  with  its  hacked  edge  where  he  had  done  his  "home- 
work" when  he  went  to  the  public  school  up  the  road,  his 
shelf  of  books,  the  line  of  pegs  for  his  clothes,  the  rifle 
his  father  had  given  him  when  he  shot  fifty  rabbits  in 
one  month.  He  lit  the  lamp  and  looked  about,  his  eyes 
seeing  it  as  mean  and  unlovely,  and  his  heart  reproach- 
ing him  that  he  should  see  it  so. 

He  sat  down  by  the  table  and  tried  to  read,  but  the 
book  fell  to  his  knees  and  he  stared,  thought-tranced,  at 
the  pegs  along  the  wall.  What  he  thought  of  was  the 
eldest  Alston  girl,  Lorry,  the  one  he  had  described  as 
"small."  Usually  he  did  not  permit  himself  to  do  this, 
but  tonight  the  talk  on  the  porch,  his  people's  naive 
pleasure  that  he  should  know  one  so  fine  and  far-removed, 
called  up  her  image — dominant,  imperious,  not  to  be 
denied.  With  the  lamplight  gilding  his  brooding  face, 
the  back-growing  crest  of  dark  hair,  the  thick  eyebrows, 
the  resolute  mouth,  lip  pressed  on  lip  in  an  out-thrust 
curve,  he  sat  motionless,  seeing  her  against  the  back- 
ground of  her  home. 

Details  of  its  wealth  came  to  him,  costly  elegancies  of 
her  surroundings — the  long  parlor  with  its  receding 

26 


Marquis  de  Lafayette 


vista  to  a  dining  room  where  silver  shone  grandly,  rich, 
still  curtains,  pictures,  statues;  the  Chinese  servants 
offering  delicate  food,  coming  at  the  touch  of  a  bell, 
opening  doors,  carrying  trays.  It  was  not  really  as  im- 
posing as  Mark  thought.  There  were  people  who  sniffed 
at  the  Alstons'  way  of  living,  in  that  queer,  old-fashioned 
house  far  down  town  with  the  antiquated,  lumbering  furni- 
ture their  father  had  bought  when  he  married.  But  Mark 
had  not  the  advantage  of  a  comparative  standard.  Her 
setting  gained  its  splendor  not  only  from  his  inexperi- 
ence, but  by  comparison  with  his  own.  He  saw  their 
two  homes  in  contrast,  just  as  he  saw  her  in  contrast 
with  the  other  girls  he  had  known,  her  fortune  in  con- 
trast with  his  twenty  dollars  a  week.  It  brought  him  a 
new,  sharp  pain,  pain  that  he  should  have  seen  the  dif- 
ference, that  he  had  acknowledged  it,  that  what  had  once 
seemed  good  and  fitting  now  looked  poor  and  humble. 
He  loved  his  people  and  hugged  the  love  to  him  with  a 
fierce  loyalty,  but  it  could  not  hide  the  fact  that  they 
were  not  as  her  people.  It  was  the  first  jar  to  his  glad 
confidence,  the  first  blow  in  his  proud  fight  for  power  and 
place,  the  first  time  the  thought  of  his  poverty  had  come 
with  a  humiliating  sting.  He  was  sore  and  angry  with 
himself  and  would  have  liked  to  be  angry  with  her.  But 
he  couldn't — she  was  so  sweet ! 


CHAPTER  IV 

THE  DERELICT 

THE  tramp  walked  down  the  road,  first  on  the 
grizzled  grass,  then,  the  earth  under  it  baked  to 
an  iron  hardness,  back  on  the  softened  dust.  He 
passed  Tito  Murano's  cottage  with  dogs  and  chickens 
and  little  Muranos  sporting  about  the  kitchen  door  and 
then  noticed  a  diminishing  of  trees  and  a  sudden  widen- 
ing of  the  prospect.  From  here  the  road  dwindled  to  a 
trail  that  sloped  to  the  marsh  which  spread  before  him. 
He  sat  down  on  a  bank  by  the  roadside  and  looked  at  it. 

Under  the  high,  unsullied  heavens  it  lay  like  an  un- 
rolled map,  green-painted,  divisions  and  subdivisions 
marked  by  the  fine  tracings  of  streams.  His  eye  traveled 
down  its  length  to  where  in  a  line,  ruler-straight,  it  met 
the  sky,  then  shifted  to  its  upper  end,  a  jagged  point 
reaching  to  the  hills.  He  had  heard  of  it  on  the  ranches 
where  he  had  been  picking  fruit — "It's  easy  traveling  till 
you  reach  the  tules,  but  it's  some  pull  round  them."  He 
gauged  the  distance  round  the  point,  and  oaths,  pictur- 
esque and  fluent,  came  from  him.  He  had  sixteen  dollars 
in  the  lining  of  his  coat,  and  for  days  as  he  tramped  and 
worked,  he  saw  this  hoard  expended  in  San  Francisco — 
a  bath,  clean  linen,  and  a  dinner,  a  dinner  in  a  rotisserie 
with  a  pint  of  red  wine  and  a  cigar.  He  saw  no  further 
than  that — sixteen  dollars'  worth  of  comfort  and  good 
living. 

Now  he  was  like  a  child  deprived  of  its  candy.  He 
ached  with  fatigue,  his  feet  were  blistered,  his  throat  dry 


The  Derelict 


as  a  kiln.  Throwing  off  his  hat,  he  leaned  forward,  his 
elbows  on  his  knees,  and  cursed  the  marsh  as  if  it  were  a 
living  thing,  cursed  it  with  a  slow,  unctuous  zest,  spat 
out  upon  it  the  venom  and  wrath  that  had  accumulated 
within  him. 

Seeing  him  thus,  his  hat  off,  sullen  indifference  re- 
placed by  a  malign  animation,  he  was  a  very  different 
being  from  the  man  who  had  accosted  Mark.  A  danger- 
ous chap  beyond  doubt,  dangerous  from  a  dark  soul  and 
a  stored  power  of  malevolence.  His  face,  vitalized  with 
rage,  was  handsome ;  a  narrow  forehead,  the  hair  receding 
from  the  temples,  a  high-bridged  nose  with  wide-cut  nos- 
trils, lips  thin  and  fine,  moving  flexibly  as  they  muttered. 
It  matched  with  what  the  voice  had  told  Mark,  was  not 
the  face  of  the  brutalized  hobo  or  low-bred  vagrant,  but 
beneath  its  hair  and  dirt  showed  as  the  mask  of  a  man 
who  might  have  fallen  from  high  places.  Even  his  curses 
went  to  prove  it.  They  were  not  the  dull  profanities  of 
the  loafer,  but  were  varied,  colorful,  imaginative,  such 
curses  as  might  come  from  one  who  had  read  and  re- 
membered. 

Suddenly  they  stopped  and  his  glance  deflected,  alert 
and  apprehensive — his  ear  had  caught  a  low  crooning  of 
song.  It  came  from  a  small  boy  who,  a  little  wooden 
boat  in  his  hand,  was  advancing  up  the  slope.  This  was 
Tito  Murano,  Junior,  Tito's  first-born,  nine  years  old, 
softly  footing  it  home  after  a  joyous  hour  along  the 
edge  of  the  tules. 

Tito's  mother  was  Irish,  but  the  Latin  strain  had  flow- 
ered forth  strong  in  her  son.  He  was  bronze-brown,  with  a 
black  bullet  head  and  eyes  like  shoe  buttons.  A  pair  of 
cotton  trousers  and  a  rag  of  shirt  clothed  him  and  his 
feet  were  bare  and  caked  with  mud.  A  happy  day  be- 
hind him  and  the  prospect  of  supper  made  his  heart  light 

29 


Treasure  and  Trouble  Therewith 

and  he  gave  forth  its  joy  in  fresh,  bird-sweet  carolings. 

He  did  not  see  the  tramp  and  a  sharp,  "Hey,  there, 
kid,"  made  him  halt,  startled,  gripping  the  treasured  boat 
against  his  breast.  Then  he  made  out  the  man,  and  stood 
staring,  poised  to  run. 

"Is  there  any  way  of  getting  across  this  infernal 
place?"  The  tramp's  hand  swept  the  prospect. 

Bashfulness  held  Tito  speechless,  and  he  stood  rubbing 
one  foot  across  the  other. 

The  man's  eyes  narrowed  with  a  curious,  ugly  look. 

"Are  you  deaf?"  he  said  very  quietly. 

A  muttered  negative  came  from  the  child.  The  ques- 
tion contained  a  quality  of  scorn  that  he  felt  and  re- 
sented. 

"I  want  to  cross  the  marsh,  get  to  the  railway.  What's 
the  best  way  to  go  ?" 

Tito's  arm  made  a  sweeping  gesture  round  the  head  of 
the  tules. 

"That.     There's  a  trail.    You  go  round." 

"Good  God — that's  miles.  How  do  people  go,  the 
people  here,  when  they  want  to  get  to  the  other  side?" 

"That  way."  Tito  repeated  his  gesture.  "But  they 
don't  go  often,  and  they  mostly  rides." 

The  man  gave  a  groaning  oath,  picked  up  his  hat,  then 
cast  it  from  him  with  fury,  and,  planting  his  elbows  on  his 
knees,  dropped  his  forehead  on  his  hands.  Tito  was  sorry 
for  him,  and  advanced  charily,  his  heart  full  of  sym- 
pathy. 

"The  duck  shooters  have  laid  planks,"  he  murmured 
encouragingly. 

The  man  raised  his  head. 

"Planks— where?" 

Tito  indicated  the  marsh. 

"All  along.  They  lay  'em  when  they  come  to  shoot  and 

SO 


The  Derelict 


then  they  let  'em  lay.  Nobody  don't  ever  go  there  'cept 
the  duck  shooters." 

"You  mean  I  can  get  across  by  the  planks  ?" 

Tito  forgot  his  bashfulness  and  drew  nearer.  He  was 
emboldened  by  the  thought  that  he  could  help  the  tramp, 
give  assistance  as  man  to  man. 

"You  couldn't.  It's  all  mud  and  water,  and  turns  too, 
like  you  was  goin'  round  in  rings.  But  /  could — I  bin 
acrost,  right  over  to  the  Ariel  Club."  He  pointed  to  a 
small  white  square  on  the  opposite  side.  "That's  where. 
The  railroad's  a  ways  beyont  that,  but  it  ain't  awful 
far." 

The  man  looked  and  nodded,  then  smiled,  a  slight  curl- 
ing of  his  lip,  a  slight  contraction  of  the  skin  round  his 
eyes. 

"If  you  show  me  the  way  I'll  give  you  a  quarter,"  he 
iaid,  turning  the  smile  on  Tito. 

Tito  did  not  like  the  smile;  it  suggested  a  dog's  lifted 
lip  when  contemplating  battle.  Also  he  had  been  forbid- 
den to  go  into  the  marsh;  some  of  the  streams  were  deep, 
the  mud  treacherous.  But  a  quarter  had  seldom  crossed 
his  palm.  He  saw  himself  spending  it  at  the  crossroads 
store,  and,  tucking  his  boat  up  under  his  arm,  said  man- 
fully: 

"All  right — I'll  get  you  over  before  sundown." 

They  started,  the  child  running  fleet-footed  ahead,  the 
man  following  with  long  strides.  There  was  evidently  a 
way  and  Tito  knew  it.  His  black  head  bobbed  along  in 
front,  now  a  dark  sphere  glossed  by  the  sunlight,  now  an 
inky  silhouette  against  the  white  shine  of  water.  There 
were  creeks  to  jump  and  pools  to  wade — the  duck  shooters' 
planks  only  spanned  the  deep  places — and  the  way  was 
hard. 

Once  the  tramp  stopped,  surly-faced,  and  measured 

31 


Treasure  and  Trouble  Therewith 

the  distance  to  the  Ariel  Club  house.  It  seemed  but  little 
nearer.  He  told  Tito  so,  and  the  child,  pausing  to  look 
back,  cheered  him  with  heartening  phrases.  But  it  was  a 
hard  pull,  crushing  through  the  dense  growth,  staggering 
on  the  slippery  ooze,  and  he  began  to  mutter  his  curses 
again.  Tito,  hearing  them,  made  no  reply,  a  little  scared 
in  the  sun-swept  loneliness  with  the  swearing  in  his  ears. 

Finally  the  man,  floundering  on  a  bank  of  mud,  slipped 
and  fell  to  his  knees.  He  groveled,  his  hands  caked,  and 
when  he  rose  a  fearful  stream  of  profanity  broke  from 
him.  Tito  stopped,  chilled,  peering  back  between  the 
rushes.  If  it  had  been  a  rancher  or  one  of  the  boys  he 
would  have  laughed.  But  he  had  no  inclination  to  laugh 
at  the  staggering  figure,  with  the  haggard,  sweat-beaded 
face  and  furious  eyes. 

"I  said  it  was  long,  but  we're  gettin'  there.  We're  half- 
way acrost  now,"  his  little  pipe,  mellow-sweet,  was  in 
strange  contrast  with  what  had  come  before. 

"You're  a  liar,  a  damnable  liar.  You've  led  me  into 

the  middle  of  this  place  that  you  don't  know  any 

more  of  than  I  do." 

His  eyes,  ranging  about  in  helpless  desperation,  saw, 
some  distance  beyond,  a  rise  of  dry  ground.  The  sight 
appeared  to  divert  him,  and  he  stood  looking  at  it.  He 
had  the  appearance  of  having  forgotten  Tito,  and  the 
child,  uneasy  at  this  sudden  stillness  as  he  was  ready  to 
be  at  anything  the  tramp  did,  said  with  timid  urgence : 

"Say,  come  on.  I  got  to  get  home  for  supper  or  I'll 
get  licked." 

For  answer  the  man  moved  in  an  opposite  direction, 
to  where  the  stream  widened.  He  saw  there  was  deep 
water  between  him  and  the  dry  place,  but  he  wanted  to 
get  there,  rest,  smoke,  unroll  his  blanket  and  sleep.  Tito's 
uneasiness  increased. 


The  Derelict 


"You're  goin'  the  wrong  way,"  he  pleaded.  <fYou  can't 
get  round  there,  it's  all  water." 

Suddenly  the  man  turned  on  him  savagely.  His  brood- 
ing eyes  widened  and  their  look,  a  threatening  glare,  made 
the  boy's  heart  quail. 

"Get  out,"  he  shouted,  "get  out,  I'm  done  with  you. 
You're  a  fakir." 

Tito  retreated,  crushing  the  rushes  under  his  naked 
feet,  his  face  extremely  fearful. 

"But  I  was  takin'  you.     I  sure  was " 

"Get  out.  You  don't  know  anything  about  it.  You're 
a  liar." 

"I  do.  I  was  takin'  you  straight — and  you  promised 
me  a  quarter." 

"To  hell  with  you  and  your  quarter.  Didn't  you  hear 
me  say  get  out?" 

The  thought  of  the  quarter  gave  Tito  a  desperate 
courage;  his  voice  rose  in  a  protesting  wail: 

"But  I  done  half  already — you're  halfway  acrost. 
You'd  oughter  give  me  a  dime.  I've  done  more  than  a 
dime's  worth." 

The  tramp,  with  a  smothered  ejaculation,  bent  and 
picked  up  a  bit  of  iron,  relic  of  some  sportsman's  pas- 
sage. Tito  saw  the  raised  hand  and  ducked,  hearing  the 
missile  hurtle  over  his  head  and  plop  into  the  water  be- 
hind him.  It  frightened  him,  but  not  so  much  as  the 
man's  face.  Like  a  small,  terrified  animal  he  bent  and 
fled.  The  breaths  came  quick  from  his  laboring  breast, 
and  as  he  ran,  his  head  low,  the  rushes  swaying  together 
over  his  wake,  sobs  burst  from  him,  not  alone  for  fear, 
but  for  his  lost  quarter. 

The  sun  was  the  dazzling  core  of  a  golden  glow  when 
he  crept  on  to  the  dry  ground,  mud-soaked,  tear- 
streaked,  his  wooden  boat  still  in  his  hand.  His  terror 


Treasure  and  Trouble  Therewith 

^^^™>^^^^^™"*™*^^"^^^^^^^^^^^^^^-^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^ 

was  over  and  he  padded  home  in  deep  thought,  inventing 
a  lie.  For  if  his  parents  knew  of  his  wanderings  he  wouL 
be  beaten  and  sent  to  bed  without  supper. 

The  tramp  picked  his  way  round  to  the  stream  tha 
separated  him  from  the  desired  ground,  slipped  out  o 
his  clothes  and,  putting  them  in  the  basket,  plunged  i 
the  current.  On  the  opposite  bank  he  stood  up,  a  lear 
shining  shape,  the  sunlight  gilding  his  wet  body,  till  i 
looked  like  a  statue  of  brass.  The  bath  refreshed  him 
he  would  eat  some  fruit  he  had  in  his  basket,  take 
smoke,  and  rest  there  for  the  night. 

Still  wet,  he  pulled  on  his  clothes,  stretched  out,  an 
drawing  a  pear  from  the  basket  began  to  eat  it.  As  h 
did  so  his  glance  explored  the  place  and  brought  up  on 
mark  at  the  water's  edge.  It  interested  him,  and  sti' 
gnawing  the  pear,  he  crawled  down  to  it — a  footprinl 
large  and  as  clearly  impressed  as  if  cast  in  plaster.  No 
far  from  it  was  a  triangular  indentation,  its  point  drive 
deep — the  mark  of  a  boat's  prow. 

Both  looked  fresh,  the  uppressed  outlines  of  mud  cris 
and  flakey,  which  would  happen  quickly  under  such 
sun.  Among  his  fellow  vagrants  he  had  learned  a  goo 
deal  about  the  tules,  one  fact,  corroborated  by  the  chile 
that  at  this  season  no  one  ever  disturbed  their  loneliness 
Still  squatting  he  glanced  about — at  the  foot  of  the  rus 
wall  behind  him  were  two  burnt  matches.  Men  had  re 
cently  been  there,  come  in  a  boat,  and  smoked ;  there  wer 
no  traces  of  a  fire. 

To  perceptions  used  to  the  open  dealings  of  an  unol 
servant  honesty,  it  would  have  signified  nothing.  But  t 
his,  trained  for  duplicity,  learned  in  the  ways  of  a  worl 
where  concealments  were  a  part  of  life,  it  carried  a  mear 
ing.  His  face  took  on  an  animal  look  of  cunning,  hi 
movements  became  alert  and  stealthy.  Rising  to  his  feel 


The  Derelict 


ie  moved  about,  staring,  studying.,  saw  other  footprints 
md  then  a  break  in  the  rushes  at  the  back.  He  went 
;here,  parted  the  broken  spears  and  came  on  a  space 
rhere  some  were  cut  away,  the  ground  disturbed,  and 
till  moist. 

Half  an  hour  later,  the  sun,  sending  its  last  long  shafts 

icross  the  marsh,  played  on  a  strange  picture — a  tramp, 

rhite-faced,  with  trembling  hands,  and  round  him,  on  the 

ground,  about  his  sprawled  legs,  falling  from  his  shaking 

ingers,  yellow  in  the  yellow  light,  gold,  gold,  gold ! 


CHAPTER  V 

THE  MARKED  PARAGRAPH 

THE  first  half  of  the  night  he  spent  moving  thd 
money  to  the  marshes'  edge.  Its  weight  was  likJ 
the  weight  of  millstones  but  disposed  about  him 
in  the  basket,  in  the  gunny  sacks  slung  from  his  shoul- 
ders, in  the  newspaper  carried  in  his  hands,  he  dragged  i1 
across.  When  he  reached  the  bank  he  fell  like  one  dead, 
Outstretched  beside  his  treasure  he  lay  on  his  back  anc 
looked  with  half-closed  eyes  at  the  black  vault  and  the 
cold  satiric  stars. 

Before  the  dawn  came  he  wrapped  part  of  it  in  the 
paper  and  buried  it  among  the  sedge ;  the  rest  he  put  IE 
his  basket  and  his  pockets.  Early  morning  saw  him,  an 
inconspicuous,  frowsy  figure,  slouching  up  to  a  way  sta- 
tion on  the  line  to  Sacramento. 

In  the  train  he  found  a  newspaper  left  by  a  departed 
traveler,  and  on  its  front  page,  featured  with  black  head- 
lines, the  latest  news  of  the  Knapp  and  Garland  holdup, 
After  he  had  read  it  he  sat  very  still.  He  knew  what  h( 
had  found  and  was  relieved.  It  cleared  the  situation  ii 
it  added  to  its  danger.  But  he  was  intrigued  by  the  diffi- 
culty of  disposing  of  the  money.  To  bank  it  was  out  oi 
the  question;  he  must  rouse  no  curiosity  and  he  coulc 
give  no  references.  To  leave  it  on  the  marshes'  edge  was 
impracticable.  He  had  heard  of  men  who  kept  their  Ioo1 
buried,  but  he  feared  the  perils  of  a  cache,  to  be  dug  anc 
redug,  ungettable,  in  a  solitary  place,  hard  to  find  anc 
dangerous  to  visit.  He  must  put  it  somewhere  not  toe 


The  Marked  Paragraph 


remote,  secure  against  discovery,  where  he  could  come 
and  go  unnoticed  and  free  from  question.  By  the  time 
the  train  reached  Sacramento  he  had  formulated  a 
plan. 

He  knew  the  city  well,  had  footed  the  streets  of  its 
slums  before  he  went  South.  In  a  men's  lodging  house, 
kept  by  a  Chinese,  he  engaged  a  room,  left  what  gold  he 
had  there — he  had  to  take  his  chance  against  theft — and 
in  the  afternoon  took  a  down  train  to  the  marsh.  He  was 
back  with  the  rest  of  the  money  that  night,  buying  a 
secondhand  suitcase  on  his  way  from  the  depot.  In  this 
he  packed  it,  still  in  the  canvas  sacks,  the  newspaper 
folded  over  it.  He  saw  to  it  that  the  suitcase  had  a 
lock,  and  lead-heavy  he  laid  it  flat  under  the  bed. 

The  next  morning  he  rose,  nerved  to  a  day  of  action. 
He  was  out  early,  his  objective  the  small,  mean  stores  .of 
the  poorer  quarter.  In  these  he  bought  shoes,  the  coarse 
brogans  of  the  workman,  and  a  hat,  a  rusty,  sweat-stained 
Stetson.  A  barber's  shop  in  a  basement  was  his  next 
point  of  call.  Here  he  was  shaved  and  his  hair  cut. 
When  he  emerged  into  the  light  of  day  the  tramp  had 
disappeared.  The  ragged  growth  gone,  the  proud  almost 
patrician  character  of  his  face  was  strikingly  apparent. 
It  matched  so  illy  with  his  wretched  clothes  that  passersby 
looked  at  him.  He  saw  it  and  slunk  along  the  walls,  his 
hat  on  his  brows,  uneasily  aware  of  the  glances  of  women 
which  usually  warmed  him  like  wine.  At  a  secondhand 
dealer's,  a  dark  den  with  coats  and  trousers  hanging  in 
layers  about  the  entrance,  he  bought  a  suit  of  clothes 
and  an  overcoat.  Carrying  these  in  a  bundle  he  went 
back  to  his  room  and  put  them  on. 

The  transformation  was  now  complete.  He  studied 
himself  in  the  blotched  and  wavy  mirror  and  nodded  in 
grave  approval.  He  might  have  been  an  artisan,  a  small 

37 


Treasure  and  Trouble  Therewith 

clerk,  or  a  traveling  salesman  routed  through  the  country 
towns. 

Half  an  hour  later  saw  him  at  the  desk  of  the 
Whatcheer  House.  This  was  a  third-rate  men's  hotel,  a 
decent  enough  place  where  the  transient  male  population 
from  the  interior  met  the  restless  influx  from  the  coast. 
Here  floated  in,  lodged  a  space,  then  drifted  out  a  tide 
of  men,  seekers  of  work,  of  pleasure,  of  change,  of  noth- 
ing at  all.  The  majority  were  of  the  world's  rovers  im- 
pelled by  an  unquenchable  wanderlust,  but  among  them 
were  the  industrious  and  steady,  quartered  in  the  city  or 
shifting  to  a  new  center  of  activity.  He  registered  as 
Harry  Romaine  of  Vancouver  and  described  himself  as 
a  traveling  man  who  would  use  Sacramento  as  a  base  of 
operations.  He  took  a  room  in  the  back — No.  19 — said 
he  would  probably  keep  it  all  winter  and  paid  a  month's 
rent  in  advance. 

By  afternoon  he  had  the  money  there  and  with  it  a 
chisel  and  hammer.  It  was  intensely  hot,  the  sun  beat- 
ing on  the  wall  and  sloping  in  through  the  one  window. 
Complete  silence  from  the  rooms  on  either  side  reassured 
him,  and  in  the  scorching  stillness  he  worked  with  a  noise- 
less, capable  speed.  In  one  corner  under  the  bed  he 
pulled  up  the  carpet  and  pried  loose  the  boards.  Some 
of  the  money  went  there,  some  below  the  pipes  in  the 
cupboard  under  the  stationary  washstand,  the  rest  be- 
hind a  piece  of  the  baseboard. 

Before  he  replaced  the  boards  in  the  corner  cache — 
the  largest  and  least  difficult  to  disturb — he  glanced  about 
for  anything  overlooked  or  forgotten  for  which  the  hole 
would  be  a  convenient  hidinguplace.  On  the  floor,  out- 
spread and  crumpled,  lay  the  newspaper.  The  outer 
sheets  were  brown  and  disintegrated  from  contact  with 
the  mud,  but  the  two  inner  ones  were  whole  and  clean. 

88 


The  Marked  Paragraph 


Probably  it  would  be  better  to  take  no  chances  and  hide 
it;  someone  might  notice  it  and  wonder  how  it  came  to 
be  in  such  a  state.  He  picked  it  up,  looked  it  over,  and 
saw  it  was  the  Sacramento  Courier  of  August  25.  That 
would  make  it  only  three  days  old,  the  issue  of  the  day 
before  the  holdup.  If  anything  was  needed  to  convince 
him  that  the  cache  was  Knapp  and  Garland's  this  was  it. 
He  opened  it  on  the  table  to  fold,  brushing  out  the 
creases,  when  suddenly  his  hand  dropped  and  his  glance 
became  fixed.  A  marked  paragraph  had  caught  his 
attention. 

The  light  was  growing  dim  and  he  took  the  paper  to 
the  window.  The  paragraph  was  at  the  end  of  a  column, 
was  encircled  by  two  curved  pencil  strokes,  and  on  the 
edge  of  clean  paper  below  it  was  written,  also  in  pencil, 
"Hello,  Panchita.  Ain't  you  the  wonder.  Your  best 
beau's  proud  of  you." 

He  pulled  a  chair  to  the  window,  folded  back  the  page 
and  read  the  marked  item.  The  column  was  headed 
"C.  C.'s  San  Francisco  Letter,"  was  dated  August  21, 
and  was  mainly  concerned  with  social  and  business  news 
of  the  coast  city.  That  part  of  it  outlined  by  the  pencil 
strokes  ran  as  follows: 

As  to  matters  theatrical  there's  nothing  new  in  sight,  ex- 
cept that  Pancha  Lopez — our  Pancha — made  a  hit  this  week 
in  "The  Zingara/'  the  gypsy  operetta  produced  on  Sunday 
night  at  the  Albion.  I  can't  tell  much  about  "The  Zingara" — 
maybe  it  was  good  and  maybe  it  wasn't.  I  couldn't  reckon 
with  anything  but  Pancha;  she  was  the  whole  show.  She's 
never  done  anything  so  well,  was  as  dainty  as  a  pink,  as 
brilliant  as  a  humming  bird,  danced  like  a  fairy,  and  sang — 
well,  she  sang  way  beyond  what  she's  led  us  to  expect  of 
her.  Can  I  say  more?  The  public  evidently  agrees  with 
me.  The  S.  R.  O.  sign  has  been  out  at  the  cozy  little  home 
of  comic  opera  ever  since  Sunday.  C.  C.,  who  can't  keep 

39 


Treasure  and  Trouble  Therewith 


away  from  the  place,  has  seen  so  many  dress  shirt  fronts  and 
plush  cloaks  that  he's  rubbed  his  eyes  and  wondered  if  he 
hasn't  made  a  mistake  and  it's  the  grand  opera  season  come 
early  with  a  change  of  dates.  But  he  hasn't.  Pacific  and 
Van  Ness  avenues  are  beginning  to  understand  that  we've 
got  a  little  song  bird  right  here  in  our  midst  that  they  can  hear 
for  half  a  dollar  and  who  gives  them  more  for  that  than  the 
Metropolitans  do  for  a  V.  Saluda,  Pancha!  Here's  looking 
at  you.  Some  day  the  East  is  going  to  call  you  and  you're 
going  to  make  a  little  line  of  footsteps  across  the  continent. 
But  for  our  sakes  postpone  it  as  long  as  you  can.  Remember 
that  you  belong  to  us,  that  we  discovered  you  and  that  we 
can't  get  on  without  you. 

He  read  it  twice  and  then  studied  the  penciled  words, 
"Hello,  Panchita!  Ain't  you  the  wonder.  Your  best 
beau's  proud  of  you."  In  the  dying  light  he  murmured 
them  over  as  if  their  sound  delighted  him  and  as  he  mur- 
mured a  slight,  sardonic  smile  broke  out  on  his  face. 

His   sense   of  humor,   grim   and   cynical,   was   tickled. 
He,  the  picaroon,  companion  of  rogues  and  small  maraud- 
ers,  had   seen   many   and   diverse  love   affairs.      On   th< 
shady  bypaths  he  had  followed,  edging  along  the  rim  oi 
the  law,  he  had  met  all  sorts  of  couples,  men  and  wom< 
incomprehensibly  attracted,  ill-assorted,  mysterious,  pic 
turesque.     This  seemed  to  him  one  of  the  most  piquanl 
combinations  he  had  ever  encountered — a  bandit  and 
comic  opera  singer.    It  amused  him  vastly  and  he  croone< 
over  the  paper,  grinning  in  the  dusk.     The  fellow  ha( 
evidently  marked  the  item  and  written  his  congratulaj 
tions,  intending  to  send  it  to  her,  then  needed  it  to  wra] 
round  the  money,  and  confident  in  the  security  of  hi* 
cache,  left  it  there   against  his   return.      That  though] 
increased  his  amusement,  and  he  laughed,  a  low,  smothei 
chuckle. 

It  was  dark  and  he  rose  and  lit  the  lamp.     Then 

40 


The  Marked  Paragraph 


tore  out  the  piece  of  the  paper  and  put  it  in  the  pocket 
of  his  suitcase.  The  rest  he  folded  and  placed  in  the  hole 
under  the  money.  As  he  knelt,  fitting  the  boards  back, 
he  thought  of  the  singing  woman,  Pancha  Lopez.  The 
beloved  of  a  highwayman,  with  a  Spanish  name,  he  pic- 
tured her  as  a  dark,  flashing  creature,  coarsely  opulent 
and  mature.  It  was  evident  that  she  too  belonged  to  the 
world  of  rogues  and  social  pirates,  and  he  laughed  again 
as  he  saw  himself,  swept  back  by  a  turn  of  fate,  into  the 
lives  of  the  outlawed.  He  must  see  Pancha  Lopez;  she 
promised  to  be  interesting. 


CHAPTER  VI 

PANCHA 

A  WEEK  later,  at  eleven  at  night,  a  large  audience 
was  crowding  out  of  the  Albion  Opera  House. 
If  you  know  San  Francisco — the  San  Francisco 
of  before  the  fire — you  will  remember  the  Albion.  It 
stood  on  one  of  those  thoroughfares  that  slant  from  the 
main  stem  of  Market  Street  near  Lotta's  Fountain.  That 
part  of  the  city  is  of  dubious  repute;  questionable  back 
walls  look  down  on  the  alley  that  leads  to  the  stage  door, 
and  after  midnight  there  is  much  light  of  electricity 
and  gas  and  much  unholy  noise  round  its  darkened 
bulk. 

But  that  is  not  the  Albion's  fault.  It  did  not  plant 
itself  in  the  Tenderloin ;  it  was  the  Tenderloin  that  grew. 
Since  it  first  opened  its  doors  as  a  temple  of  light  opera 
— fifty  cents  a  seat  and  a  constant  change  of  bill — its 
patrons  have  been,  if  not  fashionable,  always  respectable. 
Smoking  was  permitted,  also  the  serving  of  drinks — the 
seat  in  front  had  a  convenient  shelf  for  the  ladies'  lemon- 
ade and  the  gentleman's  beer — but  even  so,  no  one  could 
say  that  a  strict  decorum  did  not  prevail  in  the  Albion's 
audiences  even  as  it  did  in  the  Albion's  productions. 

A  young  man  with  a  cheerful,  ugly  face  stood  in  a 
side  aisle,  watching  the  crowd  file  out.  He  had  a  kindly 
blue  eye,  a  merry  thick-lipped  mouth,  and  blonde  hair 
sleeked  back  across  his  crown,  one  lock,  detached  from 
the  rest,  falling  over  his  forehead.  He  had  a  way  of 
smoothing  back  this  lock  with  his  palm  but  it  always  fell 


Pancha 


down  again  and  he  never  seemed  to  resent  it.  Of  all  that 
pertained  to  his  outward  appearance,  he  was  indifferent. 
Not  only  his  patience  with  the  recalcitrant  lock,  but  his 
clothes  showed  it — dusty,  carelessly  fitting,  his  collar  too 
large  for  his  neck,  his  cravat  squeezed  up  into  a  tight 
sailor's  knot  and  shifted  to  one  side.  He  was  Charlie 
Crowder,  not  long  graduated  from  Stanford  and  now  a 
reporter  on  the  Despatch,  where  he  was  regarded  with 
interest  as  a  promising  young  man. 

His  eye,  exploring  the  crowd,  was  the  journalist's, 
picking  salient  points.  It  noted  fur  collars  and  velvet 
wraps,  the  white  gloss  of  shirt  bosoms,  women's  hair, 
ridged  with  artificial  ripples — more  of  that  kind  in  the 
audience  than  he'd  seen  yet.  "The  Zingara"  had  made  a 
hit;  he'd  just  heard  at  the  box  office  that  they  would 
extend  the  run  through  the  autumn.  It  pleased  him  for 
it  verified  his  prophecy  on  the  first  night  and  it  was  a 
bully  good  thing  for  Pancha. 

He  stepped  out  of  a  side  entrance,  edged  through  the 
throngs  on  the  pavement,  dove  up  an  alley  and  reached 
the  stage  door.  A  single  round  lamp  burned  over  it  and 
already  dark  shapes  were  issuing  forth,  mostly  women, 
Cinderellas  returned  to  their  dingy  habiliments.  There 
was  a  great  chatter  of  feminine  voices  as  they  skirmished 
off,  some  in  groups,  some  alone,  some  on  the  arms  of 
men  who  emerged  from  the  darkness  with  muttered  greet- 
ings. 

Crowder  crossed  the  back  of  the  large  stage  where 
supers  were  pulling  scenery  about;  weights  and  ropes, 
forest  edges,  bits  of  sky  and  parlor  ceilings,  hanging  in 
layers  from  ,  the  flies.  The  brick  wall  at  the  back  was 
whitewashed  and  against  it  a  line  of  men  and  girls  passed 
scurrying  to  the  exit,  throwing  remarks  back  and  forth, 
laughing,  pulling  on  their  coats.  Some  of  them  hailed 


Treasure  and  Trouble  Therewith 

him  and  got  a  cheery  word  in  reply.  Then,  skirting  the 
wings,  he  turned  down  a  passage  and  brought  up  at  a 
door  on  which  a  small  star  was  drawn  in  chalk.  He 
knocked,  and  a  woman's  voice  called  from  inside: 

"Who  is  it?" 

"Your  faithful  press  agent." 

The  woman's  voice  answered: 

"Enter  Charlie,  rear,  smiling." 

He  opened  the  door,  went  in.  The  place  was  the 
Albion's  best  dressing  room.  It  was  small,  with  white- 
washed walls,  and  lighted  by  a  gas  jet  inclosed  in  a  wire 
shield.  A  mirror,  its  frame  dotted  with  artificial  flowers, 
bits  of  ribbon,  notes  and  favors,  surmounted  the  dressing 
table.  This  was  a  litter  of  paint  pots,  hair  pins,  toilet 
articles,  powder  rags,  across  which,  like  a  pair  of  strayed 
snakes,  lay  two  long  braids  of  black  hair.  A  powerful 
scent  of  cosmetics  and  stale  perfumery  mingled  with  the 
faint,  thrilling  breath  of  roses. 

Seated  in  front  of  the  glass  in  a  soiled  red  satin  kimono 
embroidered  in  storks,  was  Pancha  Lopez,  leading  woman 
of  the  Albion.  She  was  wiping  off  her  make-up,  a  large 
jar  of  cold  cream  on  the  table  before  her,  a  grease  rag  in 
her  hand.  The  kimono,  falling  richly,  outlined  a  thin, 
lithe  body,  flat-backed,  muscular  and  supple.  The 
make-up  still  on  her  face  turned  her  brown  skin  to  a 
meerschaum  pallor  and  the  dusky  brick-red  of  her  cheeks 
to  an  unnatural  rose.  A  long  neck  upheld  a  small,  finely 
shaped  head,  the  hair  now  drawn  back  and  twisted  in  a 
tight  knot  to  which  the  two  long  braids  had  been  pinned. 
The  Indian  strain  in  her  revealed  itself  in  the  flattened 
cheek-bones,  the  wide-cut,  delicate  nostrils  and  the  small, 
high-set  eyes  as  clearly  black  and  white  as  if  made  of 
enamel.  They  were  now  outlined  and  elongated  with  lamp 
black  which  still  clung  to  her  lashes  in  flakes.  She  was 

44 


Panclia 


twenty- two  years  old,  and  had  been  on  the  stage  for  six 
years. 

After  a  glance  over  her  shoulder  and  a  flashing  smile 
she  returned  to  her  work,  pushing  her  hair  still  further 
off  her  forehead  with  one  hand,  and  sweeping  the  greasy 
cloth  over  her  face  with  the  other. 

"Well,"  said  Crowder,  standing  beside  her  and  looking 
at  her  reflection,  "how's  the  baby-grand  Patti  tonight?" 

"Fine !"  She  drew  down  her  upper  lip  and  slowly  rubbed 
round  her  mouth,  Crowder,  as  if  fascinated,  watching 
the  process  in  the  mirror.  "Just  sit  down  on  something. 
Hang  up  my  costume  and  take  that  chair  if  there  isn't 
any  other.  I  got  to  get  this  thing  off  before  I  can  talk 
comfortably." 

Her  costume,  a  glittering  heap  of  red  and  orange,  lay 
across  a  chair,  the  pile  surmounted  by  an  open  cardboard 
box  whence  the  heads  of  roses  protruded  from  tissue 
paper.  He  feared  to  touch  that,  and  finding  another 
chair  against  the  wall,  drew  it  to  the  side  of  the  dressing 
table  and  sat  down. 

"Have  you  been  in  front?"  she  asked,  rubbing  along 
her  jaw. 

"Yes,  it's  packed.  But  I  only  came  in  just  before  the 
curtain.  How  was  the  house?" 

She  threw  a  radiant  look  at  him. 

"Ate  it  up,  dearie.  Couldn't  get  enough.  Six  encores 
for  my  castanet  song.  Oh,  Charlie,"  she  dropped  the 
hand  with  its  rag  to  the  edge  of  the  table  and  looked  at 
him,  solemnly  earnest,  "you  don't  know  how  I  feel — 
you  don't  know.  It's  hard  to  believe  and  yet  it's  true. 
I  can  see  the  future  stretching  up  like  a  ladder,  and  me 
mounting,  step  by  step,  on  rungs  made  of  gold." 

Pancha  Lopez,  unlettered,  almost  illiterate,  child  of  the 
mountains  and  the  ditches,  wandering  vagabond  of  the 

45 


Treasure  and  Trouble  Therewith 

stage,  would  sometimes  indulge  in  unexpected  felicities  of 
phrase.  Her  admirers  said  it  was  another  expression  of 
that  "temperament"  with  which  she  was  endowed. 
Growder,  who  knew  her  better  than  most,  set  it  down  to 
the  Indian  blood.  From  that  wild  blend  had  come  all  that 
lifted  her  above  her  fellows,  her  flashes  of  deep  intelli- 
gence, her  instinct  for  beauty,  her  high-mettled,  invincible 
spirit.  He  even  maintained  to  his  friend  Mark  Bur- 
rage — Mark  was  the  only  person  he  ever  talked  her  over 
with — that  it  was  the  squaw  in  her  which  had  kept  her 
pure,  made  her  something  more  than  "a  good  girl,"  a 
proud  virgin,  self-sufficing,  untamable,  jealous  of  her 
honor  as  a  vestal. 

"That's  what  you  ought  to  see,"  he  said  in  answer  to 
her  serious  eyes.  "Haven't  I  always  said  it?  Didn't  I 
tell  you  so  up  there  in  Portland  when  we  first  met  and  you 
were  doing  a  turn  between  six  saxaphone  players  and  a 
bunch  of  trained  cockatoos?" 

She  nodded,  laughing,  and  returned  to  her  rubbing. 

"You  surely  did,  and  fanned  up  the  flame  that  was  just 
a  tiny  spark  then.  Dear  old  press  agent,  I  guess  I'll  have 
to  change  your  name  to  the  Bellows." 

"A.  1.  Have  you  read  the  last  blast  I've  given  out?" 
She  shook  her  head  and  he  thrust  his  hand  into  his  over- 
coat pocket.  "I've  brought  it  along,  though  I  thought 
your  father  might  have  sent  it  to  you." 

"Pa's  in  the  mountains."  Drawing  down  her  upper  lip 
she  pressed  on  her  cheeks  with  painted  finger  tips,  scruti- 
nizing her  face  in  the  mirror.  "I  haven't  heard  from  him 
for  weeks.  He's  off  on  the  lode  somewhere." 

"Then  he  hasn't  seen  it.  It's  the  best  I've  done  yet, 
and  it's  true,  every  word." 

He  had  drawn  from  his  pocket  a  paper  which  he  now 
opened.  As  he  folded  it  back,  Pancha  took  out  her  hair- 

46 


Pancha 


pins  and  shook  down  her  hair.  It  extended  to  her 
shoulders,  a  thick,  curly  bush,  through  which  she  pulled 
the  comb  with  short,  quick  sweeps. 

"Read  that,"  said  the  young  man  and  handed  her  the 
paper.  "Sacramento  Courier — *C.  C's  San  Francisco 
Letter.'  " 

She  took  it  and  read  while  he  watched  her  with  twink- 
ling eyes.  They  were  great  pals,  these  two;  had  been 
since  they  met  in  Portland,  five  years  ago.  He  was  on 
his  way  to  Stanford,  and  had  seen  her  doing  a  singing  and 
dancing  act  in  a  wretched  vaudeville  company.  That 
vision  of  a  girlhood,  beset  and  embattled,  the  pitifulness  of 
its  acquired  hardness,  had  called  to  his  western  chivalry 
and  made  him  her  champion.  Ever  since  he  had  helped 
and  encouraged,  his  belief  and  friendship  a  spur  to  the 
ruthless  energy,  the  driving  ambition,  that  had  landed  her 
in  the  Albion  six  months  before. 

As  she  read  she  began  to  smile,  then  squeals  of  delight 
broke  from  her. 

"You  old  press  agent!"  she  cried,  hitting  at  him  with 
the  comb  and  still  reading,  and  then:  "You  pet,  you 
precious  pet!" 

She  finished  on  a  little  cry  and  cast  the  paper  to  the 
floor. 

"Oh,  Charlie,  oh,  my  good,  dear  Charlie!"  Her  face 
was  suddenly  stirred  with  an  upswelling  of  emotion.  No 
other  man  in  her  hard  and  sordid  experience  had  been  to 
her  what  Charlie  Crowder  had,  never  a  lover,  always  a 
friend. 

"Now,  Pancha,"  he  said  pleadingly,  "don't  look  at  me 
like  that  or  I'll  burst  into  sobs." 

She  rose  and,  putting  her  hands  on  his  shoulders,  kissed 
him  on  the  forehead  with  a  sexless  tenderness.  Her  eyes 
were  wet  and  to  hide  it  she  turned  to  where  her  costume 

47 


Treasure  and  Trouble  Therewith 

lay  on  the  chair.     Crowder  had  nothing  to  say;  these 
bursts  of  gratitude  from  his  friend  made  him  embarrassed. 

"Look,"  she  cried  suddenly  and  snatched  up  the  box  of 
roses,  "even  a  Johnny  at  the  stage  door.  That's  going 
some,"  and  thrusting  her  hand  into  the  box,  she  plucked 
up  by  their  heads  a  handful  of  blossoms.  Their  pure 
sweet  breath  flowed  out  on  the  coarse  scents  with  which 
the  small  place  reeked. 

Crowder  affected  a  shocked  surprise. 

"What's  this?  A  lover  at  last  and  I  kept  in  igno- 
rance." 

"This  is  his  first  appearance,  not  a  yap  till  tonight. 
And  look  at  the  yap."  She  dropped  the  box  and  took 
out  from  under  the  paper  a  card  which  she  held  toward 
him,  "Some  style  about  that  yap." 

It  was  the  square  of  pasteboard  furnished  by  the  florist. 
On  it  was  written  in  a  small,  upright  hand,  "Let  me  offer 
you  these  roses,  sweet  as  your  voice,  delicate  as  your  art, 
and  lovely  as  yourself.  An  admirer." 

Crowder  raised  his  eyebrows  and  widened  his  eyes  in 
exaggerated  amazement. 

"Well,  well,  well!  I  must  look  into  this.  Who  is  the 
gentleman  ?" 

"I  haven't  a  guess."  She  took  the  card  and  dwelt  on  it 
delightedly.  "Ain't  it  stylish  writing — scratchy  and  yet 
you  can  read  it?  And  the  words,  they're  almost  poetry. 
I  never  got  flowers  before  with  a  sentiment  as  swell  as 
that." 

"Don't  you  honest  know  who  it  is?"  said  Crowder,  im- 
pressed by  the  flowery  profusion  of  "the  sentiment." 

"Not  me.  Jake  brought  'em  in  after  the  second  cur- 
tain. They  were  left  by  a  messenger  boy.  Whoever  he 
is  he  certainly  does  things  in  a  classy  way.  Maybe  he's  a 
newspaper  man  to  write  like  that." 

48 


Pancha 


Crowder  opined  he  was  not.  He  could  hardly  imagine 
one  of  his  fellows — even  secure  in  his  anonymity — permit- 
ting his  pen  such  florid  license. 

"When  you  break  through  the  dark  secret  let  me  know. 
Then  I'll  come  round  and  cast  my  searchlight  eye  over 
him  and  see  if  he's  a  proper  companion  for  little 
Panchita." 

"No  fear,"  she  cried,  throwing  the  card  back  in  the 
box.  "Little  Panchita's  got  a  searchlight  eye  of  her  own. 
Believe  me,  it's  a  good,  trained,  old  eye.  Now  skiddoo. 
I've  got  to  slip  into  my  togs  and  then  me  for  home  and  a 
glass  of  milk.  If  he  comes  to  the  surface  with  another 
gasp  I'll  tell  you." 

When  he  had  gone  she  dropped  the  kimono  and  put  on 
a  blouse  and  skirt,  both  old  and  shabby.  Her  actions 
were  quick  and  harmonious,  no  unnecessary  moves  made, 
the  actions  of  one  trained  to  an  economy  of  time  and 
labor.  On  a  wall  hook  behind  a  curtain  she  hung  her 
gypsy  dress,  touching  it  lightly,  flicking  off  dust,  settling 
the  folds.  Poverty  had  taught  her  this  care,  as  ambition 
was  teaching  her  a  thrift  that  made  her  associates  call 
her  mean. 

What  they  thought  was  a  matter  of  indifference  to  her. 
Before  she  had  reached  the  Albion  she  knew  herself 
superior  and  had  plans  that  stretched  far.  About  these 
she  was  secret.  Not  one,  not  even  her  father,  knew  the 
amount  of  money  she  had  saved,  or  that,  when  she  had 
accumulated  enough,  she  intended  going  East  and  to 
Europe.  She  felt  her  powers  and  dreamed  of  a  future  on 
stages  far  finer  than  the  Albion's.  Once  she  had  thought 
her  father  could  help  her.  Two  years  ago  he  had  sold  a 
prospect  for  four  thousand  dollars,  but  he  had  lost  the 
money  in  an  unlucky  mining  venture  in  Oregon.  That 
ended  all  hopes  of  his  assistance.  Even  if  he  did  make 

49 


Treasure  and  Trouble  Therewith 

another  strike  he  needed  what  he  got  for  himself;  he  wa; 
getting  on,  he  wanted  to  buy  a  ranch  and  settle  down.  I 
she  was  to  reach  the  summit  of  her  desire — and  she  woulc 
reach  it  or  die — she  must  do  it  herself.  So  she  workec 
doggedly,  nursed  her  voice,  hoarded  her  earnings  anc 
said  nothing. 

She  was  ready  to  leave,  her  hat,  a  little  black  velvel 
toque,  pulled  down  over  her  hair,  a  long  shaggy  ulstei 
clothing  her  to  the  ankles.  As  she  went  to  the  dressing 
table  to  put  out  the  light  she  saw  her  image  in  the  glasi 
and  paused,  eying  it.  So  far  her  appearance  had  had  nc 
value  for  her  save  as  a  stage  asset.  Now  she  looked  a1 
herself  with  a  new,  critical  interest.  Behind  the  foot- 
lights she  was  another  person,  blossomed  into  an  exotic 
brilliance,  took  on  fire  and  beauty  with  the  music  and  ex- 
citement. Might  not  a  man  seeing  her  there  be  disap- 
pointed when  he  met  her  as  she  really  was?  She  studied 
her  face  intently,  viewing  it  at  different  angles,  judging 
it  by  the  standards  of  her  world.  By  these  she  found 
it  wanting,  and  with  a  wistful  sigh  she  stretched  out 
her  hand  and  turned  off  the  light. 

It  was  nearly  midnight  when  she  walked  down  the  side 
streets  that  led  to  the  car  line  which  took  her  home. 
Overhead  the  fog  hung,  covering  the  city  with  a  luminous 
rack  which  here  and  there  parted,  showing  segments  of 
dark,  star-dotted  sky.  Passing  men  looked  at  her,  some 
meeting  a  defiant  stare,  others  a  face  so  chastely  unre- 
sponsive that  they  averted  their  eyes  as  if  rebuked.  On 
the  car  she  took  an  outside  seat,  for  she  loved  the  swift 
passage  through  the  night  with  the  chill  air  on  her  face. 
The  grip  man  knew  her  and  smiled  a  greeting,  and  as  she 
mounted  the  step  she  answered  cheerily.  Now  and  then 
as  the  car  stopped  he  spoke  to  her,  leaning  over  his 
lever,  and  she  twisted  round  to  reply,  friendly,  frank,  inti- 

50 


Pancha 


mate.  Until  she  came  to  San  Francisco  his  class  was  the 
best  she  had  ever  known. 

It  was  part  of  her  economy  to  live  in  the  Mission.  She 
had  two  rooms  there  in  the  old  Vallejo  Hotel,  a  hostelry 
once  fashionable,  now  fallen  on  dreary  days.  It  fronted 
on  a  wide  street  where  new  business  buildings  rose  beside 
.gabled  houses,  detached  and  disconsolate  in  the  midst  of 
•withered  lawns.  The  Vallejo  was  a  connecting  link 
between  these  samples  of  the  new  and  the  old.  It  be- 
longed to  the  ornate  bay-windowed  period  of  the  seventies. 
Each  of  its  "front  suites"  had  the  same  proud  bulge,  and 
its  entrance  steps  were  flanked  by  two  pillars  holding 
I  aloft  ground  glass  globes  upon  which  its  name  was  painted 
j  !n  black.  Tall  buildings  were  unknown  in  those  days ;  the 
Vallejo  boasted  only  three  stories  and  its  architect  had 
lever  dreamed  of  such  an  effete  luxury  as  an  elevator. 
3uilt  on  the  filled-in  ground  of  Mission  Creek,  it  had  de- 
eloped  a  tendency  to  sag  in  the  back,  and  when  you 
talked  down  the  oil-clothed  hall  to  the  baths,  you  were 
onscious  of  a  list  to  starboard. 

The  Vallejo  patrons  did  not  mind  these  drawbacks, 
>r  if  they  did,  thought  of  the  low  rates  and  were  uncom- 
Dlaining.  All  things  considered,  you  got  a  good  deal  for 
four  money.  The  place  was  quiet  and  respectable;  even 
n  its  downfall  it  clung  desperately  to  its  traditions.  It 
;ook  no  transients,  required  a  certain  standard  of  con- 
luct  in  its  lodgers,  and  still  maintained  a  night  clerk  in 
;he  office  of  its  musty  front  hall. 

Pancha  thought  it  quite  regal.  If  it  was  a  proud  ele- 
vation for  her  to  reign  at  the  Albion,  it  was  a  correspond- 
ng  one  for  her  to  have  two  rooms  to  herself  in  a  real 
lotel.  As  she  ascended  the  stairs — her  apartment  was 
>n  the  second  floor — she  looked  about  her,  taking  in  sat- 
sfactory  details,  the  worn  moquette  carpet,  the  artificial 

51 


Treasure  and  Trouble  Therewith 

palm  on  a  pedestal  in  the  corner,  the  high,  gilt-topped 
mirror  at  the  turn  on  the  stairs.  It  all  seemed  to  her  whal 
she  would  have  called  "refined" ;  she  need  never  be  ashamed 
to  have  a  visitor  come  there. 

In  her  parlor  she  lit  the  light  and  surveyed  her  sur- 
roundings with  an  increasing  satisfaction.  It  was  a 
startlingly  ugly  room,  but  she  thought  it  a  bower  of  ele- 
gance. What  gave  her  authority  on  the  stage,  what  had 
already  lifted  her  above  the  mass,  seemed  to  fall  from  her 
with  her  costume.  That  unwavering  sense  of  beauty  and 
grace,  that  instinctive  taste  which  lent  her  performance 
poetry  and  distinction,  left  her  at  the  wings.  Now  her 
eye  dwelt,  complacent,  on  the  red  plush  chairs,  the  coarse 
lace  curtains,  the  sofa  pillows  of  etched  leather  and  dis- 
sonant colors,  the  long  mirror  between  the  windows,  and 
each  and  all  received  her  approval.  As  she  had  thought 
on  the  stairs,  she  thought  again — no  one  would  be 
ashamed  to  receive  a  visitor,  no  matter  how  stylish,  in 
such  a  room. 

She  put  her  roses  in  a  vase  and  then  fetched  a  bottle 
of  milk  from  the  window  sill  and  a  box  of  crackers  from 
the  bureau  drawer.  Setting  these  on  the  marble-topped 
table  beside  the  droplight  she  sat  and  ate.  It  was  too 
cold  to  take  off  her  coat  and  from  its  pocket  she  drew  the 
card  that  had  come  with  the  flowers.  As  she  sipped  and 
munched,  the  shadows  of  the  room  hovering  on  the  light's 
circular  edge,  she  read  over  the  words,  murmuring  them 
low,  her  voice  lingering  on  them  caressingly. 

It  was  the  first  knock  at  the  door  of  her  dreams,  the 
first  prismatic  ray  of  romance  that  had  penetrated  the 
penumbra  of  brutal  realities  in  which  she  had  lived. 


CHAPTER  VII 

THE   PICAROON 

THE  Argonaut  Hotel — all  San  Franciscans  will  re- 
member it — had,  like  the  Vallejo,  started  life  with 
high  expectations  and  then  declined.  But  not  to 
so  complete  a  downfall.  Fashion  had  left  it,  but  it  still  did 
a  good  business,  was  patronized  by  commercial  travelers 
and  old  customers  from  the  interior,  and  had  a  solid  foun- 
dation of  residential,  married  couples  beaten  by  the 
servant  question  and  elderly  men  with  no  ties.  Its  posi- 
tion had  been  against  it — on  that  end  of  Montgomery 
Street  where  the  land  begins  to  rise  toward  Telegraph 
Hill,  with  the  city's  made  ground  behind,  and  in  front  "the 
gore"  where  Dr.  Coggeswell's  statue  used  to  stand.  Peo- 
ple who  lived  there  were  very  loyal  to  it — not  much  style, 
but  comfort,  quiet  and  independence. 

Three  days  before  the  events  in  the  last  chapter  a  man 
entered  its  office  and  asked  for  rooms.  He  was  an  im- 
pressive person,  of  the  kind  who  usually  went  to  the 
Palace  or  the  St.  Francis.  Ned  Murphy,  the  clerk,  sized 
him  up  as  an  Easterner  or  maybe  a  foreigner.  There  was 
something  foreign-looking  about  him — you  couldn't  just 
tell  what;  it  might  be  the  way  he  wore  his  hair,  brushed 
back  straight  from  his  forehead,  or  an  undemocratic 
haughtiness  of  bearing.  He  looked  as  if  he  was  used  to 
the  best,  and  he  acted  that  way;  had  to  be  shown  four 
suites  before  he  was  satisfied  and  then  took  the  most  ex- 
pensive, second  floor  front,  two  rooms  and  bath,  and  you 
could  see  he  didn't  think  much  of  it.  Ned  Murphy  lived 

53 


Treasure  and  Trouble  Therewith 

up  to  him  with  an  unbroken  spirit,  languidly  whistled  as 
he  slid  the  register  across  the  counter,  looked  up  the  hall 
with  a  bored  air,  and  then  winked  at  the  bell  boy  holding 
the  bags.  But  when  the  stranger  had  followed  the  boy 
up  the  stairs — the  Argonaut  had  no  elevator---he  pulled 
the  register  round  and  eagerly  read  the  entry — "Boye 
Mayer,  New  York."  A  foreign  name  all  right;  you 
couldn't  fool  him. 

He  told  the  switchboard  girl,  who  had  been  taking  it  all 
in  from  her  desk,  and  she  slid  over  to  size  up  the  signa- 
ture. She  thought  he  mightn't  be  foreign — just  hap- 
pened to  have  that  sort  of  name — he  didn't  talk  with  any 
dialect.  When  the  bell  boy  came  back  they  questioned 
him,  but  he  was  grouchy — feller'd  only  given  him  a  dime. 
And  say,  one  of  them  suit  cases  was  all  battered  and  wore 
out,  looked  like  the  kind  the  hayseeds  have  when  they 
come  up  from  the  country. 

In  his  room  the  man  went  to  the  window,  hitched  back 
the  lace  curtains  and  threw  up  the  sash.  Life  in  the 
open  had  made  these  shut-in  places  stifling,  and  he  drew 
in  the  air  with  a  deep  relish.  Evening  was  falling,  a 
belated  fog  drifting  in,  wreathing  in  soft  whorls  over  the 
hills,  feeling  its  way  across  their  summits  and  through 
their  hollows.  It  made  the  prospect  depressing,  every- 
thing enveloped  in  a  universal,  dense  whiteness.  He  sur- 
veyed it,  frowning — the  looming  shapes  of  the  high  land 
beyond,  the  line  of  one-story  hovels  sprawled  on  the  gore. 
To  the  right  the  street  slanted  upward  toward  Telegraph 
Hill  whence  smaller  streets  would  decline  to  the  water- 
front and  the  Barbary  Coast.  He  knew  that  section  well 
and  smiled  a  little  as  he  thought  of  it  and  of  himself,  a 
ragged  vagrant,  exploring  its  byways. 

His  thoughts  stopped  at  that  memory — the  lowest 
point  of  his  fall — hung  there  contemplative  and  then 

54 


The  Picaroon 


turned  backward.  They  passed  beyond  his  arrival  in 
California,  his  days  of  decay  before  that,  the  first  gradual 
disintegration,  back  over  it  all  to  the  beginning. 

Thirty-six  years  ago  he  had  been  born  in  New  York, 
a  few  months  after  the  arrival  of  his  parents.  They  were 
Austrians,  his  father  an  officer  in  the  Royal  Hungarian 
Guards,  his  mother  a  dancer  at  the  Grand  Opera  House 
in  Vienna.  When  Captain  Ruppert  Heyderich,  of  a 
prosperous  Viennese  family,  had,  in  a  burst  of  passionate 
chivalry,  married  Kathi  Mayer,  end  coryphee  on  the 
second  row,  he  had  deserted  the  army,  his  country  and 
his  world  and  fled  to  America.  Captain  Heyderich  had 
not  committed  so  radical  a  breach  of  honor  and  conven- 
tion without  something  to  do  it  on,  and  the  early  part  of 
the  romance  had  moved  smoothly  in  a  fitting  environment. 
Their  only  child,  Lothar,  could  distinctly  recall  days  of 
affluence  in  an  apartment  on  the  Park.  He  had  had  a 
governess,  he  had  worn  velvet  and  furs. 

Then  a  change  came;  the  governess  disappeared,  also 
the  velvet  and  furs,  and  they  began  moving.  There  was  a 
period  when  to  move  was  a  feature  of  their  existence,  each 
habitat  showing  a  decrease  in  size  and  splendor.  Lothar 
was  nine,  a  lanky  boy  with  his  hair  worn  en  brosse,  in 
baggy  knickerbockers  and  turn-over  white  collars,  when 
they  were  up  on  the  West  Side  in  six  half-lighted  rooms, 
with  a  sloppy  Hungarian  servant  to  do  all  the  work. 
That  was  the  time  when  his  father  taught  languages  and 
his  mother  dancing.  But  he  went  to  a  private  school. 
Captain  Heyderich  never  got  over  his  European  ideas. 

Those  lean  years  came  to  a  sudden  end ;  Captain  Hey- 
derich's  mother  died  in  Vienna  and  left  him  a  snug  little 
fortune.  They  moved  once  more,  but  this  time  it  was  a 
hopeful,  jubilant  move,  also  a  long  one — to  Paris.  They 
settled  there  blithely  in  an  apartment  on  the  Rue  Victor 

55 


Treasure  and  Trouble  Therewith 

Hugo,  Lothar,  placed  at  a  Lycee,  coming  home  for  week- 
ends. He  remembered  the  apartment  as  ornate  and  over 
furnished,  voluble  guests  coming  and  going,  a  great  manj 
parties,  his  mother,  elaborately  dressed,  always  hurrying 
off  to  meet  people  in  somebody's  else  house  or  hurrying 
home  to  meet  them  in  her  own.  Several  times  Austriai 
relations  visited  them,  and  Lothar  had  a  lively  recollectioi 
of  a  fight  one  Sunday  evening,  when  an  uncle,  a  large 
bearded  man,  had  accused  his  mother  of  extravagance  anc 
she  had  flown  into  a  temper  and  made  a  humiliating 
scene. 

He  was  seventeen  when  his  father  died,  and  it  was  dis 
covered  that  very  little  money  was  left.  Some  of  th< 
relations  came  from  Vienna  and  there  was  a  family  con 
clave  at  which  it  was  suggested  to  Lothar  that  he  returi 
to  Vienna  with  them  and  become  a  member  of  the  clan 
Separation  from  his  mother  was  a  condition  and  hi 
refused.  He  did  this  not  so  much  from  love  of  her  a: 
from  fear  of  them.  They  represented  a  world  of  whicl 
he  was  already  shy,  of  high  standards,  duties  rigorously 
performed,  pledges  to  thrift  and  labor.  Life  with  Kath 
was  more  to  his  taste.  He  loved  its  easy  irresponsibility 
its  lack  of  routine,  its  recognition  of  amusement  as  t 
prime  necessity.  He  delivered  his  dictum,  his  mothe; 
wept  triumphant  tears,  and  the  relations  departed  wash 
ing  their  hands  of  him. 

After  that  they  went  to  London  and  Lothar  made  hi 
first  attempts  at  work.  They  were  fitful ;  the  grind  of  i 
irked  him,  the  regular  hours  wore  him  to  an  ugly  fretful 
ness.  He  tried  journalism — could  have  made  his  plac 
for  he  was  clever — but  was  too  unreliable,  and  droppe( 
to  a  space  writer,  drifting  from  office  to  office.  In  hi 
idle  hours,  which  were  many,  he  gambled.  That  was  mor 
to  his  taste,  done  in  his  own  way,  at  his  own  time — n< 

56 


The  Picaroon 


cramping  restrictions  to  bind  and  stifle  him.  He  was 
often  lucky  and  developed  a  passion  for  it. 

He  was  twenty-three  when  they  returned  to  New  York, 
Kathi  having  begged  some  more  money  from  Vienna. 
She  was  already  a  worn,  old  witch  of  a  woman,  dressed 
gayly  in  remnants  of  past  grandeur  and  always  painting 
her  face.  She  and  her  son  held  together  in  a  partnership 
strained  and  rasping,  but  unbreakable,  united  by  the  mys- 
terious tie  of  blood  and  a  deep-rooted  moral  resemblance. 
They  led  a  wandering  life,  following  races,  hanging  on  the 
fringes  of  migrating  fashion,  sometimes  hiding  from  cred- 
itors, then  reestablished  by  a  fortunate  coup.  But  in 
those  days  he  was  still  careful  to  pick  his  steps  along  the 
edges  of  the  law,  just  didn't  go  over  though  it  was  peril- 
ous balancing.  When  she  died  he  was  relieved  and  yet  he 
grieved  for  her.  He  felt  free,  no  longer  subject  to  her 
complaints  and  bickerings,  but  in  that  freedom  there  was 
a  chill,  empty  loneliness — no  one  was  beside  him  in  that 
gingerly  picking  of  his  steps. 

It  was  when  he  was  twenty-seven — not  quite  lost — that 
the  news  came  from  Vienna  of  an  unexpected  legacy.  His 
uncle,  dying  at  the  summit  of  a  successful  career,  had  re- 
lented and  left  him  fifty  thousand  dollars.  He  assured 
himself  he  would  be  careful — poverty  had  taught  him — 
and  at  first  he  tried.  But  the  habits  of  "the  years  that 
the  locust  had  eaten"  were  too  strong.  Augmented  by 
several  successful  speculations  it  lasted  him  for  six  years. 
At  the  end  of  that  time  he  was  ruined,  worn  in  body, 
warped  in  mind,  his  mold  finally  set. 

After  that  he  ceased  to  pick  his  way  along  the  edges  of 
the  law.  He  slipped  over.  He  followed  many  lines  of 
endeavor,  knew  the  back  waters  and  hinterlands  of  many 
cities,  ceased  to  be  Lothar  Heyderich  and  was  known  by 
other  names.  It  was  in  Chicago,  the  winter  before  this 

57 


Treasure  and  Trouble  Therewith 

story  begins,  that  an  attack  of  pneumonia  brought  him 
to  the  public  ward  of  a  hospital.  Before  his  discharge,  a 
doctor — a  man  who  had  noticed  and  been  interested  in 
him — gave  him  a  word  of  warning: 

"A  warm  climate — no  more  lake  breezes  for  you.  If 
you  stay  here  and  keep  on  swinging  round  the  circle  it 
won't  be  long  before  you  swing  back  here  to  us — swing 
back  to  stay.  Do  you  get  me?" 

He  did,  his  face  gone  gray  at  this  sudden  vision  of  the 
end  of  all  things.  The  doctor,  in  pity  for  what  he  was 
now  and  evidently  once  had  been,  gave  him  his  fare  to 
California. 

It  had  been  hell  there.  The  climate  had  done  its  work, 
he  was  well,  but  he  had  felt  himself  more  a  pariah  than 
ever  before.  He  had  seemed  like  a  fly  crawling  over  a 
glass  shield  under  which  tempting  dainties  are  clearly 
visible  and  maddeningly  unattainable.  A  man  wanted 
money  in  California — with  money  could  lead  the  life,  half 
vagabondage,  half  lazy  luxury,  that  was  meat  to  his  long- 
ing. Never  had  he  been  in  a  place  that  allured  him  more 
and  that  held  him  more  contemptuously  at  arm's  length. 

He  had  sunk  to  his  lowest  depth  in  this  tantalizing  par- 
adise, tramped  the  streets  of  cattle  towns,  herded  with 
outcasts  lower  than  himself.  In  Los  Angeles  he  had 
washed  dishes  in  a  cafeteria,  in  Fresno  polished  the 
brasses  in  a  saloon.  And  all  around  him  was  plenty,  an 
unheeding  prodigal  luxuriance,  Nature  rioting  in  a  bound- 
less generosity.  Her  message  came  to  him  from  sky  and 
earth,  from  sweep  of  flowered  land,  from  embowered  vil- 
lage and  thronging  town — that  life  was  good,  to  savor  it, 
plunge  in  it,  live  it  to  the  full.  At  times  he  felt  half  mad, 
struggling  to  exist  in  the  midst  of  this  smiling  abundance. 

When  he  began  that  upward  march  through  the  state 
he  had  no  purpose,  his  mind  was  empty  as  a  dried  nut,  the 

58 


The  Picaroon 


rrible  lethargy  of  the  tramp  was  invading  him.     From 

Dwn-drawn  brows  he  looked,  morose,  at  a  world  which 

jfused  him  entrance,  and  across  whose  surface  he  would 

rift  aimless  as  a  leaf  on  the  wind.     Then,  the  strength 

gained  by  exercise  and  air,  the  few  dollars  made  by  fruit 

eking,  gave  a  fillip  to  his  languishing  spirit  and  an  ob- 

^ctive  point  rose  on  his  vision.     He  would  go  to  San 

rancisco — something  might  turn  up  there — and  with  his 

oarded  money  buy  cleanliness  and  one  good  meal.     It 

rew  before  him,  desirable,  dreamed  of,  longed  for — the 

ath,  the  restaurant,  the  delicate  food,  the  bottle  of  wine. 

e  was  obsessed  by  it;  the  deluge  could  follow. 

The  wind,  blowing  through  the  open  casement,  brought 

m  back  to  the  present.     The  night  had  fallen,  the  street 

ilow   a   misty    rift,   its   lights    smothered   in   swimming 

apor.     There  was  brightness  about  it,  blotted  and  ob- 

ured  but  gayly  intentioned,  even  the  sheds  on  the  gore 

nding  out  golden  gushes  that  suffused  the  milky  cur- 

•ents  with  a  clouded  glow.     He  lighted  the  gas  and  looked 

it  his  watch — nearly  seven.     He  would  go  out  and  dine — 

;hat  dinner  at  last — and  afterward  drop  in  at  the  Albion 

ind  see  Pancha  Lopez,  "the  bandit's  girl." 


CHAPTER  VIII 

THOSE  GIRLS  OF  GEORGE'S 

THE  Alstons  were  finishing  dinner.  From  over  the 
table,  set  with  the  glass  and  silver  that  George 
Alston  had  bought  when  he  came  down  from  Vir- 
ginia City,  the  high,  hard  light  of  the  chandelier  fell  on 
the  three  females  who  made  up  the  family.  It  was  devas- 
tating to  Aunt  Ellen  Tisdale's  gnarled  old  visage — she 
was  over  seventy  and  for  several  years  now  had  given  up 
all  tiresome  thought  processes — but  the  girls  were  so 
smoothly  skinned  and  firmly  modeled  that  it  only  served 
to  bring  out  the  rounded  freshness  of  their  youthful  faces. 

The  Alstons  were  conservative,  clung  to  the  ways  of 
their  parents.  This  was  partly  due  to  inheritance — 
mother  and  father  were  New  Englanders — and  partly 
to  a  reserved  quality,  a  timid  shyness,  that  marked  Lorry 
who,  as  Aunt  Ellen  ceased  to  exert  her  thought  processes 
and  relapsed  into  a  peaceful  torpor,  had  assumed  the 
reins  of  government.  They  conformed  to  none  of  those 
innovations  which  had  come  from  a  freer  intercourse  with 
the  sophisticated  East.  The  house  remained  as  it  had 
been  in  their  mother's  lifetime,  the  furniture  was  the  same 
and  stood  in  the  same  places,  the  table  knew  no  modern 
enhancement  of  its  solidly  handsome  fittings.  Fong,  the 
Chinese  cook — he  had  been  with  George  Alston  before  he 
married — ruled  the  kitchen  and  the  two  "second  boys." 
No  women  servants  were  employed;  women  servants  had 
not  been  a  feature  of  domestic  life  in  Bonanza  days. 

That  was  why  the  house  was  lit  by  chandeliers  instead 

60 


Those  Girls  of  George's 


of  lamps,  that  was  why  dinner  was  at  half  past  six  instead 
of  seven,  that  was  why  George  Alston's  daughters  had 
rather  "dropped  out."  They  would  not  move  with  the 
times,  they  would  not  be  brought  up  to  date.  Friends  of 
their  mother's  had  tried  to  do  it,  rustled  into  the  long 
drawing-room  and  masterfully  attempted  to  assist  and 
direct.  But  they  had  found  Lorry  unresponsive,  listen- 
ing but  showing  no  desire  to  profit  by  the  chance.  They 
asked  her  to  their  houses — replenished,  modern,  object 
lessons  to  rich  young  girls — and  hinted  at  a  return  of  hos- 
pitalities. It  had  not  been  a  success.  She  was  disap- 
pointing, no  snap,  no  go  to  her;  the  young  men  who  sat 
beside  her  at  dinner  were  bored,  and  the  house  on  Pine 
Street  had  not  opened  its  doors  in  reciprocal  welcome. 
By  the  time  she  was  twenty  they  shrugged  their  shoulders 
and  gave  her  up — exactly  like  Minnie,  only  Minnie  had 
always  had  George  to  push  her  along. 

As  the  women  friends  of  Minnie  did  their  duty,  the  men 
friends  of  George — guardians  of  the  estate — did  theirs. 
They  saw  to  it  that  the  investments  were  gilt-edged,  and 
the  great  ranch  in  Mexico  that  George  had  bought  a  few 
years  before  his  death  was  run  on  a  paying  basis.  At 
intervals  they  asked  their  wives  with  sudden  fierceness  if 
they  had  called  on  "those  girls  of  George's,"  and  the 
wives,  who  had  forgotten  all  about  it,  looked  pained  and 
wanted  to  know  the  reason  for  such  an  unnecessary  ques- 
tion. Within  the  week,  impelled  by  a  secret  sense  of 
guilt,  the  ladies  called  and  in  due  course  Lorry  returned 
the  visits.  She  suffered  acutely  in  doing  so,  could  think 
of  nothing  to  say,  was  painfully  conscious  of  her  own 
dullness  and  the  critical  glances  that  wandered  over  her 
best  clothes. 

But  she  did  not  give  much  thought  to  herself.  That 
she  lacked  charm,  was  the  kind  to  be  overlooked  and  left 

61 


Treasure  and  Trouble  Therewith 

in  corners,  did  not  trouble  her.  Since  her  earliest  mem- 
ories— since  the  day  Chrystie  was  born  and  her  mother 
had  died — she  had  had  other  people  and  other  claims  on 
her  mind.  Her  first  vivid  recollection — terrible  and  in- 
effaceable— was  of  her  father  that  day,  catching  her  to 
him  and  sobbing  with  his  face  pressed  against  her  babj 
shoulder.  It  seemed  as  if  the  impression  made  then  had 
extended  all  through  her  life,  turned  her  into  a  creature  of 
poignant  sympathies  and  an  unassuagable  longing  to  con- 
sole and  compensate.  She  had  not  been  able  to  do  that 
for  him,  but  she  had  been  able  to  love — break  her  box  of 
ointment  at  his  feet. 

From  that  day  the  little  child  became  the  companion 
of  the  elderly  man,  her  soft  youth  was  molded  to  suit 
his  saddened  age,  her  deepest  desire  was  a  meeting  of  his 
wishes.  Chrystie,  whose  birth  had  killed  her  mother, 
became  their  mutual  joy,  their  shared  passion.  Chrystie- 
worship  was  inaugurated  by  the  side  of  the  blue  and 
white  bassinet,  the  nursery  was  a  shrine,  the  blooming 
baby  an  idol  installed  for  their  devotion.  When  George 
Alston  died,  Lorry,  thirteen  years  old,  had  dedicated  her- 
self to  the  service,  held  herself  committed  to  a  contin- 
uance of  the  rites.  He  had  left  her  Chrystie  and  she 
would  fulfill  the  trust  even  as  he  would  have  wished. 

Probably  it  was  this  enveloping  idolatry  that  had  made 
Chrystie  so  unlike  parents  and  sister.  She  was  neither 
retiring  nor  serious,  but  social  and  pleasure-loving,  ready 
to  dance  through  life  as  irresponsibly  enjoying  as  a  mote 
in  a  sunbeam.  And  now  Lorry  had  wakened  to  the  per- 
plexed realization  that  it  was  her  affair  to  provide  the 
sunbeam  and  she  did  not  know  how  to  do  it.  They  were 
rich,  they  had  a  fine  house,  but  nothing  ever  happened 
there  and  it  was  evident  that  Chrystie  wanted  things  to 
happen.  It  was  a  situation  which  Lorry  had  not  fore- 


Those  Girls  of  George's 


seen  and  before  which  slir  quailed,  feeling  herself  inade- 
quate. That  was  why,  at  twenty-three,  a  little  line  had 
formed  between  her  eyebrows  and  her  glance  dwelt  anx- 
iously on  Chrystie  as  an  obligation — her  great  obligation 
— that  she  was  not  discharging  worthily. 

The  glare  of  the  chandelier  revealed  the  girls  as  singu- 
larly unlike — Lorry — her  full  name  was  Loretta — was 
slender  and  small  with  nut-brown  hair  and  a  pale,  pure 
skin.  The  richest  note  of  color  in  her  face  was  the  rose 
of  her  lips,  clearly  outlined  and  smoothly  pink.  She  had 
"thrown  back"  to  her  New  England  forbears.  On  the 
elm-shaded  streets  of  Vermont  villages  one  often  sees 
such  girls,  fragile,  finely  feminine,  with  no  noticeable 
points  except  a  delicate  grace  and  serenely  honest  eyes. 

Chrystie  was  all  California's — tall,  broad-shouldered, 
promising  future  opulence,  her  skin  a  warm  cream  deep- 
ening to  shades  of  coral,  her  hair  a  blonde  cloud,  hanging 
misty  round  her  brows.  She  was  as  unsubtle  as  a  chromo, 
as  fragrantly  fresh  as  a  newly  wakened  baby.  Her 
hands,  large,  plump,  with  flexible  broad-tipped  fingers, 
were  ivory-colored  and  satin-textured,  and  her  teeth, 
narrow  and  slightly  overlapping,  would  go  down  to  the 
grave  with  her  if  she  lived  to  be  eighty.  Two  months 
before  she  had  passed  her  eighteenth  birthday  and  was 
now  of  age  and  in  possession  of  more  money  than  she  knew 
how  to  spend.  She  was  easily  amused,  overflowing  with 
good  nature  and  good  spirits  as  a  healthy  puppy,  but 
owing  to  her  sheltered  environment  and  slight  contact 
with  the  world  was,  like  her  sister,  shy  with  strangers. 

The  meal  was  drawing  to  its  end  when  the  doorbell 
rang. 

"A  visitor,"  said  Chrystie,  lifting  her  head  like  a  young 
stag.  Then  she  addressed  the  waiting  Chinaman,  "Lee, 
let  Fong  open  the  door,  I  want  more  coffee." 

63 


Treasure  and  Trouble  Therewith 

Lee  went  to  fetch  the  coffee  and  direct  Fong.  Every- 
body in  the  house  always  did  what  Chrystie  said. 

Aunt  Ellen  laid  her  old,  full-veined  hand  on  the  table 
and  pushed  her  chair  back. 

"Maybe  it  isn't  a  visitor,"  she  said,  looking  tentatively 
at  Lorry — she  hated  visitors,  for  she  had  to  sit  up.  "Do 
you  expect  someone?" 

Lorry  shook  her  head.  She  rarely  expected  anyone; 
evening  callers  were  generally  school  friends  of  Chrystie's. 

Fong,  muttering,  was  heard  to  pass  from  the  kitchen. 

"I  do  hope,"  said  Christie,  "if  it's  some  horrible  bore 
Fong'll  have  sense  enough  to  shut  them  in  the  reception 
room  and  give  us  a  chance  to  escape." 

Chrystie,  like  Aunt  Ellen,  was  fond  of  going  to  bed 
early.  She  had  tried  to  instruct  Fong  in  an  understand- 
ing of  this,  but  Fong,  having  been  trained  in  the  hos- 
pitable ways  of  the  past,  could  not  be  deflected  into  more 
modern  channels. 

In  his  spotless  white,  his  pigtail  wound  round  his  head, 
his  feet  in  thick-soled  Chinese  slippers,  he  passed  up  the 
hall  to  the  front  door.  Another  chandelier  hung  there 
but  in  this  only  one  burner  was  lit.  At  five  in  winter  and 
at  six  in  summer  Fong  lit  this  as  he  had  done  for  the  last 
twenty-four  years.  No  one,  no  matter  what  the  argu- 
ment, could  make  him  light  it  any  earlier,  any  later,  or 
turn  the  cock  at  a  lesser  or  greater  angle. 

The  visitor  was  Mark  Burrage,  and  seeing  this  Fong 
broke  into  smiles  and  friendly  greeting: 

"Good  evening,  Mist  Bullage — Glad  see  you,  Mist  Bul- 
lage.  Fine  night,  Mist  Bullage." 

Fong  was  an  old  man — just  how  old  nobody  knew. 
For  thirty-five  years  he  had  served  the  Alstons,  had  been 
George  Alston's  China  boy  in  Virginia  City,  and  then  fol- 
lowed him,  faithful,  silent,  unquestioning  to  San  Fran- 

64 


Those  Girls  of  George's 


cisco.  There  he  had  been  the  factotum  of  his  "boss's" 
bachelor  establishment,  and  seen  him  through  his  brief 
period  of  married  happiness.  On  the  day  when  Minnie 
Alston's  coffin  had  passed  through  the  front  door,  he  had 
carefully  swept  up  the  flower  petals  from  the  parlor  car- 
pet, his  brown  face  inscrutable,  his  heart  bleeding  for  his 
boss. 

Now  his  devotion  was  centered  on  the  girls ;  "Miss  Lolly 
and  Miss  Clist,"  he  called  them.  He  ruled  them  and 
looked  out  for  their  welfare — refused  to  buy  canvasbacks 
till  they  fell  to  the  price  he  thought  proper,  economized 
on  the  kitchen  gas,  gave  them  costly  presents  on  the  New 
Year,  and  inquired  into  the  character  of  every  full-grown 
male  who  crossed  their  threshold. 

Mark  Burrage  he  liked,  found  out  about  him  through: 
the  secret  channels  of  information  that  make  Chinatown 
one  of  the  finest  detective  bureaus  in  the  land,  and  set  the 
seal  of  his  approval  on  the  young  man's  visits.  He  would 
no  more  have  shown  him  into  the  reception  room  and  gone 
to  see  if  "Miss  Lolly  and  Miss  Clist"  were  receiving,  than 
he  would  have  permitted  them  to  change  the  dinner  hour. 

"You  bin  away,  Mist  Bullage,"  he  said,  placing  the 
card  the  young  man  gave  him  on  the  hall  table — cards 
were  only  presented  in  the  case  of  strangers. 

"How  did  you  know  that?"  Mark  asked,  surprised. 

Fong's  face  suggested  intense,  almost  childish  amuse- 
ment. 

"I  dunno — I  hear  some  place — I  forget." 

"I've  been  up  in  Sacramento  County  with  my  people — 
maybe  Crowder  told  you." 

"Maybe — I  not  good  memly,  I  get  heap  old  man."  He 
made  a  move  for  the  parlor  door,  his  face  wrinkled  with 
his  innocent  grin.  "Miss  Lolly  and  Miss  Clist  here; 
awful  glad  see  you,"  and  he  threw  the  door  open. 

65 


Treasure  and  Trouble  Therewith 

Mark  took  a  deep  breath  and  strode  forward,  pulling 
his  cuffs  over  his  hands,  which  at  that  moment  seemed  to 
him  to  emerge  from  his  sleeves  large  and  unlovely  as  two 
hams.  The  place  always  abashed  him,  its  sober  air  of 
wealth,  its  effortless  refinement,  its  dainty  feminine  at- 
mosphere. No  brutal  male  presence — one  never  thought 
of  Chinese  servants  as  men — seemed  ever  to  have  disturbed 
with  a  recurring,  habitual  foot  its  almost  cloistral 
quietude.  Now  with  memories  of  his  own  home  fresh  in 
his  mind,  dinner  in  the  kitchen,  the  soiled  tablecloth,  the 
sizzling  pans  on  the  stove,  he  felt  he  had  no  place  there 
and  was  an  impostor.  Their  greeting  increased  his  dis- 
comfort. They  were  so  kind,  so  hospitable,  making  him 
come  into  the  dining  room  and  take  a  cup  of  coffee.  It 
was  an  uprush  of  that  angry  loyalty,  that  determination 
to  hold  close  to  his  own,  which  made  him  say  as  soon  as 
he  was  seated, 

"I've  been  home  for  two  weeks." 

"Home?"  said  Lorry  gently. 

'And,  "Where  is  your  home?"  came  from  Aunt  Ellen,  as 
if  she  had  just  recognized  the  fact  that  he  must  have  one 
somewhere  but  had  never  thought  about  it  before. 

The  sound  of  his  voice,  gruff  as  a  day  laborer's  after 
these  flute-sweet  tones,  increased  his  embarrassment. 
Nevertheless  he  determined  that  he  would  tell  them  about 
his  home. 

"Up  in  Sacramento  County  not  far  from  the  tules. 
My  father's  a  rancher,  has  a  little  bit  of  land  there." 

"Yes,  Charlie  Crowder  told  us,"  said  Lorry.  She 
didn't  seem  to  notice  the  "little  bit  of  land,"  it  was  just  as 
if  he'd  said  four  or  five  thousand  acres  and  described  a 
balconied  house  with  striped  awnings  and  cushioned 
chairs. 

He  cast  a  glance  of  gratitude  toward  her,  met  her  eyes 

66 


Those  Girls  of  George's 


and  dropped  his  own  to  his  cup.  There  they  encountered 
his  hand,  holding  the  coffee  spoon,  the  little  finger  stand- 
ing out  from  the  others  in  a  tricksy  curve.  With  an  in- 
ward curse  he  straightened  it,  sudden  red  dyeing  his  face 
to  the  temples.  He  began  to  hate  himself  and  didn't  know 
how  to  go  on. 

Chrystie  unexpectedly  came  to  the  rescue. 

"Sacramento  County,"  she  exclaimed  with  sudden  ani- 
mation, "not  far  from  the  tules !  There  was  a  holdup 
round  there  two  or  three  weeks  ago.  I  read  it  in  the 
papers." 

Aunt  Ellen  moved  restlessly.  She  wanted  to  get  to 
her  chair  in  the  drawing-room. 

"Holdup?"  she  murmured.  "They're  always  having 
holdups  somewhere." 

"Not  like  this,"  said  Chrystie.  "It  was  a  good  one — 
Knapp  and  Garland — and  they  shot  Wells  Fargo's  mes- 
senger." 

"It  was  while  I  was  there,"  said  Mark,  "up  toward  the 
foothills  above  our  ranch." 

The  young  ladies  were  immensely  interested.  They 
wanted  to  hear  all  about  it  and  moved  into  the  parlor  to 
be  settled  and  comfortable.  They  tried  to  make  Mark 
sit  in  a  massive,  gold-trimmed  armchair,  but  he  had  his 
wits  about  him  by  this  time  and  took  a  humbler  seat  beside 
Lorry.  Aunt  Ellen  sank  into  her  rocker  with  a  sigh  of 
achievement  and  Chrystie  perched  on  the  piano  stool. 
Then  he  told  them  the  story,  forgetting  his  bashfulness 
under  the  spell  of  their  attentive  eyes. 

"Why  can't  they  catch  them,"  said  Chrystie,  "if  they 
know  their  names  ?" 

He  couldn't  help  laughing  at  that. 

"Why,  of  course  they  have  other  names,"  Lorry  ex- 
plained. "They  don't  go  about  as  Knapp  and  Garland." 

67 


Treasure  and  Trouble  Therewith 

"But  people  must  see  them,"  Chrystie  insisted,  "some- 
body must  know  what  they  look  like." 

Mark  had  to  straighten  it  out  for  her. 

"Their  friends  do — ranchers  up  in  the  hills,  and  their 
pals  in  the  towns.  But  the  sheriffs  and  the  general  public 
don't.  When  they're  out  for  business  they  cover  their 
faces,  tie  handkerchiefs  or  gunny  sacks  round  them." 

Chrystie  shuddered  delightedly. 

"How  awful  they  must  be !  I'd  love  to  be  held  up  just 
to  see  them." 

Mark  and  Lorry  looked  at  one  another  and  smiled,  as 
age  and  experience  smile  at  the  artlessness  of  youth.  It 
was  an  interchange  of  mutual  understanding,  a  flash  of 
closer  intimacy,  and  as  such  lifted  the  young  man  to  sud- 
den heights. 

"Where  do  they  put  the  money?"  said  Aunt  Ellen,  her 
thought  processes,  under  the  unusual  stimulus  of  a  con- 
versation on  bandits,  stirred  to  energy. 

"That's  what  we'd  like  to  know,  Mrs.  Tisdale.  They 
have  a  cache  somewhere  but  nobody's  been  able  to  find  it. 
I  saw  the  sheriff  before  I  left  and  Tie  thinks  it's  up  in  the 
hills  among  the  chaparral." 

"Is  the  messenger  dead?"  asked  Lorry. 

"Oh,  no — he's  getting  on  all  right.  They  don't  shoot 
to  kill,  just  put  him  out  of  business  for  the  time 
being." 

"That's  merciful,"  Aunt  Ellen  announced  in  a  sleepy 
voice. 

Chrystie,  finding  no  more  delicious  shudders  in  the  sub- 
ject, twirled  round  on  the  stool  and  began  softly  picking 
out  notes  on  the  piano.  For  a  space  Mark  and  Lorry 
talked — it  was  about  the  ranch  near  the  tules — rather 
dull  as  it  came  to  Chrystie  through  her  picking.  The 
young  man  kept  looking  at  Lorry's  face,  then  dropping 

68 


Those  Girls  of  Georges 


his  glance  to  the  floor,  abashed  before  the  gentle  atten- 
tion of  her  eyes,  fearful  his  own  might  say  too  much. 
He  thought  it  was  just  her  sweetness  that  made  her  ask 
about  his  people,  but  everything  about  Mark  Burrage  in- 
terested her.  Had  he  guessed  it  he  would  have  been  as 
much  surprised  as  she  had  she  known  that  he  thought 
her  beautiful. 

Presently  Chrystie's  notes  took  form  and  became  a 
tinkling  tune.  She  tried  it  over  once  then  whirled  round 
on  the  stool. 

"There — I've  got  it!  Listen.  Isn't  it  just  like  it, 
Lorry?" 

Lorry  immediately  ceased  talking  and  listened  while 
the  tune  ran  a  halting  course  through  several  bars. 

"Like  what  ?"  she  said.  "I  don't  know  what  it's  meant 
to  be." 

"Oh !"  Chrystie  groaned,  then  shook  her  head  at  Mark. 
"Trust  your  relations  to  take  down  your  pride.  Why, 
it's  the  Castanet  song  from  'The  Zingara!'  Tum-tum- 
tum,  tum-tum-tum,"  and  she  began  swaying  her  body  in 
time,  humming  an  air  and  banging  out  the  accompaniment, 
"  'With  my  castanets,  with  my  castanets.'  That's 
exactly  the  way  it  goes  only  I  don't  know  the  words." 
She  whirled  again  to  Mark.  "It's  the  most  delicious 
thing!  Have  you  seen  it?" 

He  hadn't,  and  Chrystie  sank  together  on  the  stool  in 
reproachful  surprise. 

"Oh,  Mr.  Burrage,  you  must  go.  Don't  lose  a  minute, 
this  very  night." 

Lorry   breathed  an  embarrassed  "Chrystie!" 

"I  didn't  mean  that  and  he  knows  it.  I  mean  the 
soonest  night  after  tonight.  We  went  yesterday  and 
even  Aunt  Ellen  loved  it.  Didn't  you,  Aunt  Ellen?" 

Aunt  Ellen,  startled  from  surreptitious  slumber,  gave 

69 


Treasure  and  Trouble  Therewith 

an  unnaturally  loud  assent  to  which  Chrystie  paid  no  at- 
tention. 

"It's  the  new  opera  at  the  Albion  and  Pancha  Lopez  is 

"  She  threw  out  her  hands  and  looked  at  the  ceiling. 

words  inadequate. 

"She's  never  done  anything  so  good  before,"  Lorry 
said. 

"All  in  red  and  orange,  and  coins  everywhere.  Orange 
gtockings  and  cute  little  red  slippers,  and  two  long  braids 
of  black  hair.  Oh,  down  to  there,"  Chrystie  thrust  out 
her  foot,  her  skirt  drawn  close  over  a  stalwart  leg,  on 
which,  just  above  the  knee,  she  laid  her  finger  tips.  Her 
eyes  on  Mark  were  as  unconscious  as  a  baby's.  "I  don't 
think  it's  all  her  own,  it's  too  long — I'll  ask  Charlie 
Crowder." 

Aunt  Ellen  had  not  gone  off  again  and  to  prove  it 
•aid, 

"How  would  he  know?" 

"Well  he'd  see  it,  wouldn't  he?  He'd  see  it  when  she 
took  off  her  hat,  all  wound  round  her  head,  yards  and 
yards  of  it.  No,  it's  false,  it  was  pinned  on  under  that 
little  cap  thing.  And  after  the  second  act  when  she 
came  on  to  bow  she  carried  a  bunch  of  flowers — oh,  that 
big,"  her  arras  outlined  a  wide  ellipse,  "the  same  colors 
as  her  dress,  red  carnations  and  some  sort  of  yellowish 
flower  I  couldn't  see  plainly." 

Mark,  seeing  some  comment  was  expected  of  him,  haz- 
arded a  safe, 

"You  don't  say!" 

"And  just  as  she  was  going  off"- — Lorry  took  it  up 
now — "she  looked  at  someone  in  a  box  and  smiled 
and " 

But  Chrystie  couldn't  bear  it.  She  leaned  toward  her 
§ister  imploringly. 

70 


Those  Girls  of  George's 


"Now,  Lorry,  let  me  tell  that — you  know  I  noticed  it 
first."  Then  to  Mark,  "She  was  close  to  the  side  where 
they  go  off  and  I  was  looking  at  her  through  the  glasses, 
and  I  saw  her  just  as  plain  give  a  sort  of  quick  look  into 
the  box  and  then  smile  and  point  to  the  flowers.  It  was 
as  if  she  said  to  the  person  in  there,  'You  see,  I've  got 
them.'  " 

"Who  was  in  the  box?" 

Chrystie  bounced  exuberantly  on  the  stool. 

"That's  the  joke.  None  of  us  could  see.  Whoever  he 
was  he  was  far  back,  out  of  sight.  It  was  awfully  excit- 
ing to  me  for  I  simply  adore  Pancha  Lopez  and  Charlie 
Crowder,  who  knows  her  so  well,  says  she  hasn't  an  ad- 
mirer of  any  kind." 

Aunt  Ellen  came  to  the  surface  with, 

"Perhaps  she's  going  to  get  one  now." 

And  Lorry  added, 

"I  hope,  if  she  is,  he'll  be  somebody  nice.  Mr.  Crowder 
says  she's  had  such  a  hard  life  and  been  so  fine  and  brave 
all  along." 

Soon  after  that  Mark  left.  There  had  been  a  time 
when  the  first  move  for  departure  was  as  trying  as  the 
ordeal  of  entrance,  but  he  had  got  beyond  that.  To- 
night he  felt  that  he  did  it  in  quite  an  easy  nonchalant 
way,  the  ladies,  true  to  a  gracious  tradition,  trailing  after 
him  into  the  hall.  It  was  there  that  an  unexpected  blow 
fell;  Chrystie,  the  enfant  terrible,  delivered  it.  Gliding 
about  to  the  hummed  refrain  of  the  Castanet  song  her 
eye  fell  on  his  card.  She  picked  it  up  and  read 
it: 

"Mark  D.  L.  Burrage.     What  does  D.  L.  stand  for?" 

It  was  Mark's  habit,  when  this  was  asked,  to  square 
his  shoulders,  look  the  questioner  in  the  eye,  and  say 
calmly,  "Daniel  Lawrence." 

71 


Treasure  and  Trouble  Therewith 

But  now  that  fierce  loyalty  to  his  own,  that  chaf< 
pride,  that  angry  rebellion  which  this  house  and  the 
girls   roused  in  him,  made  him  savagely  truthful, 
dark  mahogany-red  stained  his  face  to  the  forehead  ai 
he  looked  at  Chrystie  with  a  lowering  challenge. 

"It  stands  for  de  Lafayette." 

"De  Lafayette!"  she  stared,  amazed. 

"Yes.     My  given  name  is  Marquis  de  Lafayette." 

There  was  a  moment's  pause.  He  saw  Chrystie's  fac 
blank,  taking  it  in,  then  terrible  rising  questions  beg* 
to  show  in  her  eyes.  He  went  on,  glaringly  hostile,  pr 
jecting  his  words  at  her  as  if  she  was  a  target  and  th< 
were  missiles  : 

"My  mother  liked  the  name.  She  thought  it  was  u 
usual.  It  was  she  who  gave  it  to  me." 

Chrystie's  lips  opened  on  a  comment,  also  on  laughte 
He  could  see  both  coming  and  he  braced  himself,  th< 
Lorry's  voice  suddenly   rose,  quiet,  unastonished,   as 
it  was  the  most  natural  thing  in  the  world  to  have  su< 
a  name: 

"What  a  fine  thing  for  her  to  do!  She  admired  L 
fayette  and  called  you  after  him.  I  think  it  was  splend 
of  her." 

Outside,  in  the  darkness  of  the  street,  he  could  almo 
have  wept,  in  rage  with  himself,  in  the  smart  of  her  kin 
ness. 

He  wished  his  mother  had  been  there,  in  that  ha 
in  her  old  clothes.  He  would  have  hugged  her  to  hii 
protested  that  his  name  was  the  crowning  glory  of  h 
life.  He  would  have  liked  to  face  them  down,  show  the 
his  pride  in  her,  let  them  hear  him  tell  her  that  whatev 
she  had  done  was  in  his  opinion  right. 

The  place  where  he  lived  was  not  far,  a  lodging  hou 
on  one  of  the  steep  streets  that  sloped  to  the  city's  he 

72 


Those  Girls  of  George's 


low.  As  he  swung  down  the  hills  he  thought  of  the  hour 
of  work  he  had  promised  himself,  looked  forward  to  with 
relish.  Now  his  enthusiasm  was  gone,  extinguished  like 
a  spark  trodden  out  by  a  haughty  foot.  All  he  had  done 
looked  suddenly  trivial,  his  rise  from  a  farm  hand  a  petty 
achievement,  he  himself  a  rough,  uncultured  boor.  What 
right  had  he  at  the  house  of  Lorry  Alston,  breaking 
himself  against  unsurmountable  barriers?  In  the  begin- 
ning he  had  only  thought  to  enthrone  her  as  an  ideal, 
lovely,  remote,  unaspired  to.  She  would  be  a  star  fixed 
in  his  sky,  object  of  his  undesiring  worship.  But  it 
had  not  been  that  way.  The  star  had  not  changed  but  he 
had  ceased  to  bow  in  contemplation — looked  up,  loved  and 
longed. 

The  back  wall  of  his  dwelling  rose  above  the  trees  and 
he  saw  the  darkling  panes  of  his  own  windows.  Soon  his 
lamplight  would  glow  through  them,  and  he  would  be  in 
the  armchair  with  his  book  and  his  pipe.  The  picture 
brought  back  a  surge  of  his  conquering  spirit.  Nothing 
he  had  set  his  hand  to  had  beaten  him  yet.  If  he  fought 
as  he  had  fought  for  his  education,  was  fighting  now  for 
his  place,  he  could  fight  up  to  her  side.  There  was  no 
rival  in  sight ;  Crowder,  who  knew  them  well,  had  told  him 
so.  He  could  put  out  all  his  energies,  do  more  than  man 
had  ever  done  before,  climb,  if  not  to  her  proud  place,  at 
least  where  he  did  not  come  as  a  beggar  to  a  queen. 
Then,  on  his  feet,  the  future  clearing  before  him,  he  could 
go  to  her  and  try  and  win.  He  drew  a  deep  breath  and 
looked  up  at  the  stars,  remote  as  she  had  seemed  that 
evening.  The  lift  of  his  passion  swept  him  aloft  on  a 
wave  of  will  and  he  murmured,  "If  she  were  there  among 
you,  I'd  try  and  get  to  her  and  carry  her  away  in  my 
arms." 

Meantime  he  would  not  go  to  her  house  any  more — at 

73 


Treasure  and  Trouble  Therewith 

least  not  for  a  long  time.  There  was  no  good ;  he  was  not 
the  man  to  sit  round  in  parlors  looking  and  acting  like  a 
fool.  He  could  only  work,  blaze  the  trail,  make  the  clear- 
ing, raise  the  homestead,  and  when  it  was  ready  go  and 
tell  her  so. 


CHAPTER  IX 

GREEK  MEETS  GREEK 

EARLY  on  the  evening  when  the  Alstons  had  seen 
"The  Zingara,"  Boye  Mayer  walked  up  Kearney 
Street  looking  into  florists'  windows.  A  ciga- 
rette depended  from  his  lip,  his  opened  overcoat  disclosed 
the  glossy  whiteness  of  a  shield-like  shirt  bosom,  his  head 
was  crowned  by  a  shining  top  hat.  He  was  altogether 
a  noticeable  and  distinguished  figure. 

He  had  been  twice  to  the  Albion  and  was  going  again 
this  evening,  having  already  engaged  the  right-hand  stage 
box.  Now  he  was  purporting  to  send  Pancha  Lopez  a 
third  floral  tribute  and  with  it  reveal  his  identity.  The 
two  previous  ones  had  been  anonymous,  but  tonight  her 
curiosity — roused  to  a  high  pitch,  or  he  knew  nothing  of 
women — would  be  satisfied.  She  would  not  only  know 
who  her  unknown  admirer  was,  but  she  would  see  him  sit- 
ting in  stately  solitude  in  the  right-hand  box. 

She  had  been  a  great  surprise.  Where  he  had  expected 
to  find  an  overblown,  coarse  woman  with  the  strident  voice 
of  the  music  hall  and  its  banal  vulgarities,  he  had  seen  a 
girl,  young,  spontaneous,  full  of  a  sparkling  charm.  He 
had  heard  enough  singing  to  know  that  her  voice,  fresh 
and  untrained,  had  promise,  and  that  the  spirited  dash  of 
her  performance  indicated  no  common  gifts.  Under  any 
circumstances  she  would  have  interested  him;  how  much 
more  so  now  when  he  knew  of  her  affiliation  with  a  noto- 
rious outlaw!  She  was  evidently  a  potent  personality, 
lawless  and  daring.  The  situation  appealed  to  his  slyly 

75 


Treasure  and  Trouble  Therewith 

malign  humor,  she  confidently  secure,  he  completely  in- 
formed. It  was  a  fitting  sequel  to  the  picaresque  adven- 
ture and  he  anticipated  much  entertainment  from  meeting 
her,  saw  himself,  with  stealthy  adroitness,  worming  his 
way  toward  her  guilty  secrets. 

A  florist's  window,  a  bower  of  blossoms  under  the  gush 
of  electric  lights,  attracted  him  and  he  turned  into  the 
shop.  The  proprietor  came  forward,  ingratiatingly 
polite,  his  welcoming  words  revealing  white  teeth  and  a 
foreign  accent. 

The  gentleman  wanted  a  large  sheaf  bouquet  in 
two  colors,  red  and  orange — certainly,  and  a  Gallic 
wave  of  the  hand  indicated  a  marble  slab  where 
flowers  were  ranged  in  funnel-shaped  green  vases.  Look- 
ing over  them,  the  gentleman  lapsed  into  a  French  so  per- 
fect that  the  florist  suggested  Monsieur  was  of  that  na- 
tion, also  his  own.  Monsieur  neither  admitted  nor  denied 
the  charge,  occupied  over  the  flowers.  He  was  very  par- 
ticular about  them — perhaps  the  florist  would  understand 
better  what  he  wanted  when  he  knew  they  were  for  Miss 
Lopez  at  the  Albion  and  were  designed  to  match  her  gypsy 
dress. 

Ah,  perfectly — several  vases  were  drawn  forward — and 
over  these  the  two  men  talked  of  Miss  Lopez  and  her 
admirable  performance. 

"A  true  artist,"  the  florist  thought,  "young,  and  with- 
out training  as  Monsieur  can  see.  A  Californian,  a  girl 
of  the  people,  risen  from  nothing.  But  no  doubt  Mon- 
sieur has  already  heard  her  history." 

Monsieur  was  a  stranger,  he  knew  little  of  the  lady, 
and,  apparently  engrossed  in  his  selection  of  the  flowers, 
heard  such  facts  in  the  career  of  Pancha  Lopez  as  the 
public  were  allowed  to  know.  The  florist  ended  the  biog- 
raphy with  what  should  be — for  the  gentleman  ordering 

76 


Greek  Meets  Greek 


so  costly  a  bouquet — the  most  notable  item — Miss  Lopez 
was  a  girl  of  spotless  reputation. 

Monsieur  looked  surprised: 

"Has  no  favored  one,  no  lovers?" 

The  florist,  combining  a  scarlet  carnation  with  a  sunset 
rose,  shrugged  his  shoulders,  treating  the  subject  with  the 
lively  gravity  of  the  Gaul: 

"None,  Monsieur.  It  is  known  that  many  men  have 
paid  their  court,  but  no — good-day  to  you  and  out  they 
go!  She  wants  nobody — it  is  all  work,  work,  work.  A 
good,  industrious  girl,  very  unusual  when  one  considers 
her  beginnings.  But  being  so,  and  with  her  talents,  she 
will  arrive.  My  God,  it  is  certain." 

Monsieur  appeared  no  longer  interested.  He  paid  for 
his  bouquet,  which  was  to  be  sent  to  the  stage  door  that 
evening,  then  wrote  a  message  on  a  card.  This  time  the 
card  bore  no  "swell  sentiment ;"  the  words  were  frank  and 
to  the  point: 

Why  can't  I  know  you?  I  want  to  so  much.  I  am  alone 
here  and  a  stranger.  If  you  care  to  look  me  over  and  see  if 
you  think  I'm  worth  meeting,  I'll  be  in  the  right-hand  stage 
box  tonight. 

BOYE  MAYER, 
Argonaut  Hotel. 

As  he  walked  to  the  Albion  he  thought  over  what  he  had 
heard.  It  was  very  different  from  what  he  had  expected 
to  hear  and  increased  his  interest  in  her.  He  had  given 
her  credit  for  a  high  artistic  intelligence,  but  evidently 
she  possessed  the  other  kind  too.  How  else  could  she 
have  spread  an  impression  of  herself  so  unlike  what  she 
really  was?  A  deep,  rnsee  girl!  He  began  to  be  very 
keen  to  meet  her  and  see  which  of  the  two  would  be  the 
more  expert  in  the  duel  of  attack  and  parry. 

77 


Treasure  and  Trouble  Therewith 

The  flowers  and  the  note  were  delivered  in  the  first 
entr'acte.  With  a  sliding  rush  Pancha  was  back  on  the 
stage,  her  eye  glued  to  the  peephole  in  the  curtain.  What 
she  saw  held  her  tranced.  Like  Mark,  her  standards  suf- 
fered from  a  limited  experience.  That  the  effective  pose 
was  studied,  the  handsome  face  hard  and  withered,  the 
evening  dress  too  showily  elegant,  escaped  her.  She  had 
never — except  on  the  covers  of  magazines — seen  such  a 
man. 

The  stage  hands  had  to  pull  her  away  from  the  curtain 
and  she  went  to  her  dressing  room  with  her  cheeks  crim- 
son under  the  rouge  and  her  eyes  like  black  diamonds, 
Upon  his  own  stage,  plumed,  spurred  and  cloaked, 
romance  had  entered  with  the  tread  of  the  conqueror. 

After  the  second  gift  of  flowers  her  curiosity  was  as 
lively  as  Mayer  had  expected.  But  she  was  not  going  tc 
show  it,  she  was  going  to  be  cool  and  indifferent  till  he 
made  himself  known.  Then  she  contemplated  a  guarded 
condescension,  might  agree  to  be  met  and  even  called 
upon;  a  man  who  wrote  such  sentiments  and  gave  such 
bouquets  should  not  be  treated  with  too  much  disdain, 
But  when  she  saw  him,  her  surprise  was  so  great  that  she 
forgot  all  her  haughty  intentions.  Gratified  vanity 
surged  through  her.  At  one  moment  she  thrilled  with  the 
anticipation  of  meeting  such  a  personage,  and  at  the  next 
drooped  to  fears  that  she  might  disappoint  his  fastidious 
taste. 

That  night  she  answered  the  letter,  writing  it  over 
several  times: 

MR.  BOYE  MAYER, 
DEAR  FRIEND: 

Thanks  for  the  flowers.  They're  grand.  I  ain't  crer 
before  had  such  beautys  espechully  the  ones  that  matched  my 
dress.  I  looked  you  over  and  I  don't  think  you're  so  bad,  so 

78 


Greek  Meets  Greek 


if  you  still  want  to  know  me  maybe  you  can.  I  live  in  the 
Vallejo  Hotel  on  Balboa  Street  and  if  you'd  give  yourself  the 
pleasure  of  calling  I'll  be  there  Tuesday  at  four. 

Yours  truly, 

Miss  PANCHA  LOPEZ. 
P.  S.  Balboa  Street  is  in  the  Mission. 

The  next  evening  she  received  his  answer,  thanking  her 
for  her  kindness  and  saying  he  would  come. 

She  prepared  for  him  with  sedulous  care,  not  only  her 
room  and  her  clothes,  but  herself.  She  was  determined 
she  would  comport  herself  creditably,  would  be  equal  to 
the  occasion  and  fulfill  the  highest  expectations.  She 
was  going  to  act  like  a  lady — no  one  would  ever  suspect 
she  had  once  waited  on  table  in  the  Buon  Gusto  restau- 
rant, or  been  a  barefoot,  miner's  kid.  As  she  put  on  her 
black  velveteen  skirt  and  best  crimson  crepe  blouse,  she 
pledged  herself  to  a  wary  refinement,  laid  the  weight  of  it 
on  her  spirit.  The  only  models  she  had  to  follow  were  the 
leading  ladies  of  the  road  companies  she  had  seen,  and  she 
impressed  upon  her  mind  details  of  manner  from  the  hero- 
ines of  "East  Lynne"  and  "The  Banker's  Daughter." 

When  four  o'clock  struck  she  was  seated  by  the  center 
table,  a  book  negligently  held  in  one  hand,  her  feet,  in 
high-heeled,  beaded  slippers,  neatly  crossed,  and  a  gold 
bracelet  given  her  by  her  father  on  her  arm.  She  took  a 
last,  inspecting  glance  round  the  room  and  found  it  en- 
tirely satisfactory.  On  the  table  beside  her  a  battered 
metal  tray  held  a  bottle  of  native  Chianti,  two  glasses  and 
a  box  of  cigarettes.  In  Pancha's  world  a  visitor  was 
always  offered  liquid  refreshment  and  she  had  chosen  the 
Chianti  as  less  plebeian  than  beer  and  not  so  expensive  as 
champagne.  She  had  no  acquaintance  with  either  wine  or 
cigarettes ;  her  thrifty  habits  and  care  of  her  voice  made 
her  shun  both. 

79 


Treasure  and  Trouble  Therewith 

Mayer  recognized  the  room  as  a  familiar  type — he 
had  been  in  many  such  in  many  lands.  But  the  girl  did 
not  fit  it.  She  looked  to  him  very  un-American,  more  like 
a  Spaniard  or  a  French  midinette.  There  was  noth- 
ing about  her  that  suggested  the  stage,  no  make-up,  none 
of  its  bold  coquetry  or  crude  allure.  She  was  rather  stiff 
and  prim,  watchful,  he  thought,  and  her  face  added  to  the 
impression.  With  its  high  cheek  bones  and  dusky  color- 
ing he  found  it  attractive,  but  also  a  baffling  and  noncom- 
mittal mask. 

He  was  even  more  than  she  had  anticipated.  His  deep 
bow  over  her  hand,  his  deference,  thrilled  her  as  the 
Prince  might  have  thrilled  Cinderella.  She  was  very  care- 
ful of  her  manners,  keeping  to  the  weather,  expressing 
herself  with  guarded  brevity.  A  chill  constraint  threat- 
ened to  blight  the  occasion,  but  Mayer,  versed  in  the  weak- 
nesses of  stage  folk,  directed  the  conversation  to  her  per- 
formance in  "The  Zingara,"  for  which  he  professed  an 
ardent  admiration. 

"I  was  surprised  by  it,  even  after  what  I'd  heard.  I 
wonder  if  you  know  how  good  it  is?" 

Her  color  deepened. 

"I  try  to  make  it  good,  I've  been  trying  for  six 
years." 

He  smiled. 

"Six  years!  You  must  have  begun  when  you  were  a 
child."  * 

This  was  too  much  for  Pancha.  Her  delight  at  his 
praise  had  been  hard  to  suppress ;  now  it  burst  all  bonds. 
She  forgot  her  refinement  and  the  ladylike  solemnity  of 
her  face  gave  place  to  a  gamin  smile. 

"Oh,  quit  it.  You  can't  hand  me  out  that  line  of  talk. 
I'm  twenty-two  and  nobody  believes  it." 

Then  he  laughed  and  the  constraint  was  dissipated  like 

80 


Greek  Meets  Greek 


a  morning  mist.  They  drew  nearer  to  the  table  and 
Pancha  offered  the  wine.  To  be  polite  she  took  a  little 
herself  and  Mayer,  controlling  grimaces  as  he  sipped, 
asked  her  about  her  career.  She  told  him  what  she  was 
willing  to  tell;  nothing  of  her  private  life  which  she 
thought  too  shamefully  sordid.  It  was  a  series  of  jumps 
from  high  spot  to  high  spot  in  her  gradual  ascent.  He 
noticed  this  and  j  udged  it  as  a  story  edited  for  the  public, 
it  tallied  so  accurately  with  what  he  had  heard  already 
from  the  florist.  There  was  evidently  a  rubber  stamp 
narrative  for  general  circulation. 

After  she  had  concluded  he  made  his  first  advance, 
lightly  with  an  air  of  banter. 

"And  how  does  it  come  that  in  this  long,  lonely  struggle 
you've  stayed  unmarried?" 

A  belated  coquetry — Pancha  climbing  up  had  wasted 
no  time  on  such  unassisting  arts — stirred  in  her.  She 
tilted  her  head  and  shot  a  look  at  him  from  the  sides  of 
her  eyes. 

"I  guess  no  one  came  along  that  filled  the  bill." 

"Among  all  the  men  that  must  have  come  along?" 

"Um-um,"  she  stood  her  glass  on  the  table,  turning  its 
stem  with  her  long  brown  fingers. 

"The  lady  must  be  hard  to  please." 

"Maybe  she  is." 

Her  eyes  rested  on  the  ruby  liquid  in  the  glass.  The 
lids  were  fringed  with  black  lashes  that  grew  straightly 
downward,  making  a  semicircle  of  little,  pointed  dashes 
on  each  cheek.  He  could  not  decide  whether  she  was 
embarrassed  or  slyly  amused. 

"Or  perhaps  she's  just  wedded  to  her  art." 

"That  cuts  some  ice,  I  guess." 

"Love  is  known  to  improve  art.  Haven't  you  ever 
heard  that?" 

81 


Treasure  and  Trouble  Therewith 

"I  shouldn't  wonder.  I've  heard  an  awful  lot  about 
love." 

"Only  heard,  never  felt?  Never  responded  to  any  of 
the  swains  that  have  been  crowding  round?" 

"How  do  you  know  they've  been  crowding  round?" 

He  leaned  nearer,  gently  impressive: 

"What  I'm  looking  at  tells  me  so." 

She  met  his  eyes  charged  with  sentimental  meaning, 
and  burst  into  irrepressible  laughter. 

"Oh,  you — shut  up !  I  ain't  used  to  such  hot  air.  I'll 
have  to  open  the  windows  and  let  in  the  cold." 

It  was  not  what  he  had  expected  and  he  felt  rebuffed. 
Dropping  back  in  his  chair,  he  shrugged  his  shoulders. 

"What  can  I  say?  It's  not  fair  to  let  me  come  here 
and  then  muzzle  me." 

"Oh,  I  ain't  going  as  far  as  that.  But  you  don't  have 
to  talk  to  me  that  way.  I'm  the  plain,  sensible  kind." 

He  shook  his  head,  slowly,  incredulously. 

"No,  I've  got  to  contradict  you.  Lips  can  tell  lies 
but  eyes  can't.  You're  a  good  many  other  things  but 
you're  not  sensible." 

"What  other  things?" 

"Charming,  fascinating,  piquant,  with  a  heart  like  a 
bright,  glowing  coal." 

She  threw  back  her  head  and  let  her  laughter,  rich  and 
musical,  float  out  on  the  room. 

"Oh,  listen  to  him !  Wouldn't  it  make  a  dog  laugh !" 
Then,  swaying  on  her  chair,  she  leaned  toward  him,  grave 
but  with  her  eyes  twinkling.  "Mr.  Man,  you  can't  read 
me  for  a  cent.  Right  here,"  she  touched  her  heart  with 
a  finger  tip,  "it's  frozen  hard.  I  keep  it  in  cold  storage." 

"Hasn't  it  ever  been  taken  out  and  thawed?" 

"Never  has  and  never  will  be." 

She  swayed  away  from  him,  keeping  her  glance  on  his. 

82 


Greek  Meets  Greek 


For  a  still  second  a  strange  seriousness,  having  no  place 
in  the  scene,  held  them.  She  was  conscious  of  perplexity 
in  his  face,  he  of  something  wistful  and  questioning  in 
hers.  She  spoke  first. 

"You're  very  curious  about  me,  Mr.  Boye  Mayer?" 

She  ought  not  to  have  said  that  and  it  was  his  fault 
that  she  did.  She  was  no  mean  adversary  and  that  she 
had  seen  through  his  first  tentatives  proved  them  clumsy 
and  annoyed  him.  He  smiled,  a  smile  not  altogether 
pleasant,  and  rose. 

"All  men  must  be  curious  where  you're  concerned." 

"Not  as  bad  as  you." 

"Ah,  well,  I'm  a  child  of  nature.  I  don't  hide  my  feel- 
ings. I'm  curious  and  show  it.  Do  you  know  what  makes 
me  so?" 

She  shook  her  head,  anticipating  flatteries.  But  he  did 
not  break  into  them  as  quickly  as  she  had  expected. 
Turning  to  where  his  hat  lay  he  took  it  up,  looked  at  it 
for  a  moment  and  then,  with  his  gray  eyes  shifting  to 
hers,  said  low,  as  if  taking  her  into  his  confidence: 

"I'm  curious  because  you're  interesting.  I  think  you're 
the  most  interesting  thing  I've  seen  since  I  came  to  San 
Francisco." 

This  was  even  more  than  she  had  hoped  for.  An  un- 
familiar bashfulness  made  her  look  away  from  the  gray 
eyes  and  stammer  in  rough  deprecation: 

"Oh,  cut  it  out!" 

"I  never  cut  out  the  truth.  But  I'm  going  to  cut  out 
myself.  It's  time  for  me  to  be  moving  on.  Good-by." 

His  hand  was  extended  and  she  put  hers  into  it,  feel- 
ing the  light  pressure  of  his  cool,  dry  fingers.  She  did 
not  know  what  to  say,  wanted  to  ask  him  to  come  again, 
but  feared,  in  her  new  self-consciousness,  it  wasn't  the 
stylish  thing  to  do. 

83 


Treasure  and  Trouble  Therewith 

"I'm  real  glad  you  called,"  was  the  nearest  she  dared. 

He  was  at  the  door  and  turned,  hopefully  smiling. 

"Are  you?" 

"Sure,"  she  murmured. 

"Then  why  don't  you  ask  me  to  come  again?" 

"I  thought  that  was  up  to  you." 

He  again  was  unable  to  decide  whether  her  coyness 
was  an  expression  of  embarrassment  or  an  accomplished 
artfulness,  but  he  inclined  to  the  latter  opinion. 

"Right'O!  I'll  come  soon,  in  a  few  days.  Hasta 
manana,  fair  lady." 

After  the  door  had  closed  on  him  she  stood  sunk  in 
thought,  from  which  she  emerged  with  a  deep  sigh.  A 
slow,  gradual  smile  curved  her  lips ;  she  raised  her  head, 
looked  about  her,  then  moving  to  the  mirror,  halted  in 
front  of  it.  The  day  was  drawing  toward  twilight,  pale 
light  falling  in  from  the  bay  window  and  meeting  the 
shadows  in  the  back  of  the  room.  Her  figure  seemed  to 
lie  on  the  glass  as  if  floating  on  a  pool  of  darkness.  The 
black  skirt  melted  into  it,  but  the  crimson  blouse  and 
the  warm  pallor  of  the  face  and  arms  emerged  in  liquid 
clearness,  richly  defined,  harmoniously  glowing.  She 
looked  long,  trying  to  see  herself  with  his  eyes,  trying  to 
know  herself  anew  as  pretty  and  bewitching. 

Mayer  walked  home  wondering.  He  was  completely 
intrigued  by  her.  Her  performance  in  "The  Zingara" 
had  led  him  to  expect  a  girl  of  much  more  poise  and 
finish,  and  yet  with  all  her  rawness  she  was  far  from 
nai've.  His  own  experience  recognized  hers ;  both  had 
lived  in  the  world's  squalid  byways ;  he  could  have  talked 
to  her  in  their  language  and  she  would  have  understood. 
But  she  was  not  of  the  women  of  such  places,  she  had  a 
clean,  clear  quality  like  a  flame.  Daring  beyond  doubt, 
wild  and  elusive,  but  untouched  by  what  had  touched  the 

84 


Greek  Meets  Greek 


rest.  He  found  it  inexplicable,  unless  one  granted  her 
unusual  capacity,  unsuspected  depths  and  a  rare  and 
seasoned  astuteness.  He  had  to  come  back  to  that  and 
he  was  satisfied  to  do  so.  It  would  add  zest  to  the  duel 
which  had  just  begun. 


CHAPTER  X 

MICHAELS,  THE  MINER 

SO  distinguished  a  figure  as  Boye  Mayer  could  not 
live  long  unnoticed  in  San  Francisco.  He  had  not 
been  a  month  at  the  hotel  before  items  about  him 
appeared  in  the  press.  Mrs.  Wesson,  society  reporter  of 
the  Despatch,  after  seeing  him  twice  on  Kearney  Street, 
found  out  who  he  was  and  rustled  into  the  Argonaut 
office  for  a  word  with  Ned  Murphy.  Mr.  Mayer  was  a 
wealthy  gentleman  from  New  York,  but  back  of  that 
Murphy  guessed  he  was  foreign,  anyway  the  French- 
woman who  did  his  laundry  and  the  Dutch  tailor  who 
pressed  his  clothes  said  he  could  talk  their  languages 
like  he  was  born  in  the  countries.  He  wasn't  friendly, 
sort  of  distant ;  all  he'd  ever  said  to  Murphy  was  that  he 
was  on  the  coast  for  his  health  and  wanted  to  live  very 
quiet  to  get  back  his  strength  after  an  illness. 

It  wasn't  much  but  Mrs.  Wesson  made  a  paragraph 
out  of  it  that  neatly  rounded  off  her  column. 

Even  without  the  paragraphs  he  would  not  have  been 
unheeded.  Among  the  carelessly  dressed  men,  bustling 
along  the  streets  in  jostling  haste,  he  loomed  immacu- 
lately clad,  detached,  splendidly  idle  amidst  their  vulgar 
activity.  He  had  the  air  of  unnoticing  hauteur,  unat- 
tainable by  the  American  and  therefore  much  prized. 
His  clean-shaven,  high-nosed  face  was  held  in  a  brooding 
abstraction,  his  well-shod  foot  seemed  to  press  the  pave- 
ment with  disdain.  Eating  a  solitary  dinner  at  Jack's 
or  Marchand's,  he  looked  neither  to  the  right  nor  th« 

86 


Michaels,  the  Miner 


left.  Beauty  could  stare  and  whisper  and  he  never  give 
it  the  compliment  of  a  glance.  Ladies  who  entertained 
began  to  inquire  about  him,  asked  their  menkind  to  find 
out  who  he  was,  and  if  he  was  all  right  make  his  acquaint- 
ance and  "bring  him  to  the  house." 

He  was  not  so  solitary  as  he  looked.  Besides  Pancha 
Lopez  he  had  met  other  people.  The  wife  of  the  manager 
of  the  Argonaut  Hotel  had  asked  him  to  a  card  party, 
found  him  "a  delightful  gentleman"  and  handed  him  on 
to  her  friends.  They  too  had  found  him  "a  delightful 
gentleman"  and  the  handing  on  had  continued.  He  en- 
joyed it,  slipping  comfortably  into  the  new  environment 
— it  was  a  change  after  the  sinister  years  beyond  the 
pale,  and  the  horrible,  outcast  days.  Also  he  did  not 
confine  himself  to  the  small  sociabilities  to  which  he  was 
handed  on.  There  were  many  paths  of  profit  and  pleasure 
in  the  city  by  the  Golden  Gate  and  he  explored  any  that 
offered  entertainment — those  that  led  to  tables  green  as 
grass  under  the  blaze  of  electric  lights,  those  that  led  to 
the  poker  game  behind  Soledad  Lanza's  pink-fronted 
restaurant,  those  that  led  up  alleys  to  dark,  secretive 
doors,  and  that  which  led  to  Pancha's  ugly  sitting 
room. 

He  sought  this  one  often  and  yet  for  all  his  persuasive 
cunning  he  found  out  nothing,  got  no  further,  surprised 
no  admissions.  He  was  drawn  back  there  teased  and 
wondering  and  went  away  again,  piqued  and  baffled. 

One  evening,  a  month  after  her  first  meeting  with  him, 
Pancha,  going  home  on  the  car,  thought  about  her  father. 
She  felt  guilty,  for  of  late  she  had  rather  forgotten  him 
and  this  was  something  new  and  blameworthy.  Now  she 
remembered  how  long  it  was  since  she  had  seen  him  and 
that  his  last  letter  had  come  over  a  month  ago.  It  was 
a  short  scrawl  from  Downieville  and  had  told  her  that. 

87 


Treasure  and  Trouble  Therewith 

the  sale  of  his  prospect  hole — he  had  hoped  to  sell  it 
sometime  early  in  September — had  fallen  through.  He 
had  seemed  down-hearted. 

Despite  the  divergent  lines  of  their  lives  a  great  tie  of 
affection  united  them.  They  met  only  at  long  intervals 
— when  he  came  into  town  for  a  night — and  all  corre- 
spondence between  them  was  on  his  side  as  she  never  knew 
where  he  was.  Even  had  he  not  lavished  a  rough  tender- 
ness upon  her,  the  memory  of  pangs  mutually  suffered, 
of  hardships  mutually  endured,  would  have  bound  her  to 
him.  He  was  the  only  person  who  had  passed,  closely 
allied,  an  intimate  figure,  through  the  full  extent  of  her 
life.  Though  he  was  so  much  to  her  she  never  spoke  of 
him,  except  to  Charlie  Crowdef,  her  one  friend,  of  whose 
discretion  she  was  sure.  This  reticence  was  partly  due 
to  tenderness — the  past  and  his  place  in  it  had  their 
sacredness — and  partly  to  the  miner's  own  wish.  As  her 
star  had  risen  it  was  he  who  had  suggested  the  wisdom 
of  "keeping  him  out."  He  thought  it  bad  business;  an 
opera  singer's  father — especially  a  father  with  a  pick 
and  a  pan — had  no  advertising  value  and  might  be  detri- 
mental. When  he  put  it  that  way  she  saw  the  sense  of 
it — Pancha  was  always  quick  to  see  things  from  a  busi- 
ness angle — and  fell  in  with  his  wish.  She  was  not  un- 
willing to.  It  wasn't  that  she  was  ashamed  of  him,  she 
cared  too  little  for  the  world  to  be  ashamed  of  anything, 
but  she  did  not  want  him  made  a  joke  of  in  the  wings  or 
written  up  satirically  in  the  theatrical  column.  When 
small  road  managers  who  had  known  her  at  the  start 
came  into  town  and  asked  where  "Pancha's  Pa"  was,  no- 
body knew  anything  about  such  a  person,  and  they 
guessed  "the  old  guy  must  have  died." 

Since  she  had  lived  at  the  Vallejo  Hotel  he  had  been 
there  five  times,  always  after  dark.  She  had  told  Cush- 

88 


Michaels,  the  Miner 


ing,  the  night  clerk,  that  Mr.  Michaels  was  a  relation  of 
hers  from  the  country  and  if  he  came  when  she  was  out 
to  let  him  into  her  rooms. 

As  she  drew  up  at  the  desk  and  asked  for  her  key — it 
hung  on  a  rack  studded  with  little  hooks — Gushing, 
drowsing  with  his  feet  on  a  chair,  rose  wearily,  growling 
through  a  yawn: 

"Mr.  Michaels  has  came.  He's  been  here  about  an 
hour.  I  done  what  you  said  and  let  him  in." 

She  smothered  an  expression  of  joy,  snatched  the  key 
and  ran  upstairs.  Lovely — just  as  she  was  thinking  of 
him!  She  let  herself  in  anticipating  a  glad  welcome  and 
saw  that  he  was  lying  on  the  sofa  asleep. 

The  only  light  in  the  room  was  from  the  extension 
lamp  on  the  table  and  by  its  shaded  glow  she  stood  looking 
at  him.  He  was  sleeping  heavily,  still  wrapped  in  the 
old  overcoat  she  knew  so  well,  his  coarse  hands,  with 
blackened  finger  nails,  clasped  on  his  breast.  His  face, 
relaxed  in  rest,  looked  worn,  the  forehead  seamed  with  its 
one  deep  line,  the  eyes  sunk  below  the  grizzled  brows.  It 
came  upon  her  with  a  shock  that  he  seemed  old  and  tired, 
and  it  hurt  her.  In  a  childish  desire  to  bring  him  back 
to  himself,  have  him  assume  his  familiar  aspect  and  stop 
her  pain,  she  shook  him  by  the  shoulder,  crying: 

"Pa,  Pa,  wake  up." 

He  woke  with  a  violent  start,  his  feet  swung  to  the 
floor,  his  body  hunched  as  if  to  spring,  his  glance  wildly 
alive.  Then  it  fell  on  her  and  the  fierce  alertness  died 
out;  his  face  softened  into  a  smile,  almost  sheepish,  and 
he  rubbed  his  hand  over  his  eyes. 

"Lord,  I  was  asleep,"  he  muttered. 

She  kissed  him,  pulled  him  up,  and  with  an  arm  round 
his  back,  steered  him  to  an  armchair,  asking  questions. 
His  hand  on  her  waist  patted  softly. 

89 


Treasure  and  Trouble  Therewith 

"Well,  you  ain't  fattened  up  any,"  he  said  with  a 
quizzical  grin  and  side  glance. 

That  made  him  look  more  like  himself,  but  Pancha 
noticed  that  his  movements  were  stiff. 

"What's  the  matter?"  she  said  sharply.  "You  ain't 
got  the  rheumatism  again,  have  you?" 

"Nup,"  he  sank  slowly  into  the  chair.  "But  some- 
times when  I  first  move  I  sort  'er  kink  at  the  knees.  Gets 
me  in  the  morning,  but  I  limber  up  all  right." 

She  stood  beside  him,  uneasily  frowning. 

<4What  are  you  goin'  to  do  this  winter  when  the  rains 
begin?  You  can't  run  risks  of  being  sick,  and  me  not 
able  to  get  to  you." 

"Sick— hell!"  He  shot  a  humorous  look  at  her.  "I 
ain't  sick  in  God's  own  country — it's  only  down  here. 
Why  y'ain't  all  as  stiff  as  stone  images  in  this  sea-damp 
beats  me." 

"Oh,  it's  the  damp,"  she  said,  relieved. 

"Course  it's  the  damp.  I  wouldn't  expect  a  rope 
dancer  to  live  here  and  stay  spry." 

That  was  like  Pa;  her  anxiety  evaporated  and  she 
began  to  smile. 

"Well,  there's  one  person  who  does — yours  truly.  If 
you  don't  believe  it,  come  to  the  Albion  and  see." 

"There  ain't  another  like  you,  hon.  There's  not  your 
match  from  the  Rockies  to  the  Pacific." 

"Oh,  old  blarney!"  she  cried,  now  joyous,  and,  giving 
him  a  pat  on  the  shoulder,  moved  about  collecting  sup- 
per. "Sit  tight  there  while  I  get  you  a  bite.  I've  some 
olives  that'll  make  you  think  you're  back  among  the 
greasers." 

The  supper  came  from  divers  places — the  window  sill, 
the  top  bureau  drawer,  the  closet  shelf.  Beer  and  sar- 
dines were  its  chief  features,  with  black  olives  soaked  in 

90 


Michaels,  the  Miner 


oil  and  garlic,  cheese  straws  taken  from  a  corset  box, 
and  ripe  figs  oozing  through  their  paper  bag. 

They  ate  hungrily  without  ceremony,  wiping  their 
fingers  on  the  towel  she  had  spread  for  a  cloth.  As  they 
munched  they  swapped  their  news — his  failure  at  selling 
the  ledge,  her  success  in  "The  Zingara."  He  listened  to 
that  with  avid  attention. 

"Can  you  stay  and  see  me  tomorrow  night  ?"  she  asked. 

He  shook  his  head. 

"  'Fraid  not.  I  got  a  date  with  a  feller  in  Dutch  Flat 
for  tomorrow  afternoon." 

"About  the  prospect?" 

"Yep — it's  a  chance  and  I  got  to  jump  at  it." 

"Why  did  it  fall  through  before?" 

He  shoveled  in  a  cracker  spread  with  sardines  before 
he  answered. 

"Oh,  same  old  story — thought  it  didn't  show  up  as  big 
as  they'd  expected.  You  can't  count  on  it,  no  more'n 
you  can  on  the  weather." 

She  smothered  a  sigh.  The  "prospect"  and  the  "ledge" 
had  been  part  of  their  life,  lifting  them  to  high  hopes, 
dropping  them  to  continual  disappointment.  She  would 
have  counseled  him  to  give  it  all  up,  but  that  he  now  and 
then  had  had  luck,  especially  in  the  last  five  years.  She 
went  back  to  herself. 

"  'The  Zingara'  has  been  a  great  thing  for  me.  Every- 
body says  so.  If  the  next  piece  goes  as  big  I'm  going  to 
strike  for  a  raise.  Wait  till  I  show  you,"  she  jumped 
up,  rubbing  her  oily  fingers  on  the  towel,  "and  you'll  see 
why  little  Panchita's  had  to  get  an  extra-sized  hat." 

She  took  from  a  side  table  a  book — the  actress's  scrap 
album — and  came  back  flirting  its  pages.  At  one  she 
pressed  it  open  and  held  it  toward  him,  triumphantly  point- 
ing to  a  clipping.  "There,  from  the  Sacramento  Courier.'9 

91 


Treasure  and  Trouble  Therewith 

He  gave  a  glance  at  the  clipping  and  said: 

"Oh,  yes,  that.     Grand,  ain't  it?" 

She  was  surprised. 

"You've  seen  it.    Why  didn't  you  send  it  to  me?" 

"Who  said  I'd  seen  it?"  He  took  the  book  from  her, 
staring  across  it,  suddenly  combative.  "Don't  you  run 
along  so  fast.  Ain't  you  known  if  I  had  I'd  have  mailed 
it  to  you?" 

"But  how  did  you  know  about  it?"  she  said,  her  sur- 
prise growing,  for  she  saw  he  was  moved. 

"You're  gettin'  too  darned  quick."  He  pushed  the 
book  in  among  the  dishes  roughly,  his  irritation  obvious. 
"Ain't  it  possible  I  might  have  heard  it?  Might  have 
met  a  feller  that  come  up  from  Marysville  who'd  seen  it 
and  told  me?" 

"Yes,  of  course  it  is.     You  needn't  get  mad  about  it." 

"Mad — who  said  I  was  mad?"  He  bent  over  the  book, 
muttering  like  a  storm  in  retreat.  "I  guess  I  ain't  missed 
so  many  that  when  one  does  get  by  me  you  should  throw 
it  in  my  teeth." 

She  smoothed  the  top  of  his  head  with  a  placating 
hand  and  went  back  to  her  seat.  Nibbling  a  ripe  olive  she 
watched  him  as  he  read.  Her  eyes  were  anxiously  question- 
ing. This  too — anger  at  so  small  a  thing — was  unlike  him. 

When  he  had  finished  his  annoyance  was  over;  pride 
beamed  from  his  face  as  if  a  light  was  lit  behind  it. 

"I  guess  there  ain't  many  of  'em  get  a  write-up  like 
that."  He  put  the  book  aside  and  began  a  second  attack 
on  the  supper.  "Crowder's  some  friend.  His  little 
finger's  worth  more'n  the  whole  kit  and  crew  you've  had 
danglin'  round  you  since  you  started." 

"You're  right."  She  stretched  her  hand  for  a  fig,  spill- 
ing, bruised  and  bursting,  from  the  torn  bag.  "There's 
a  new  one  dangling." 


Michaels,  the  Miner 


With  her  father  Pancha  was  always  truthful.  To  the 
rest  of  the  world  she  lied  whenever  she  thought  it  neces- 
sary, never  carelessly  or  prodigally,  for  to  be  fearless 
was  part  of  her  proud  self-sufficiency.  But  as  she  had 
learned  to  fight,  to  battle  her  way  up,  to  climb  over  her 
enemy,  to  wrest  her  chance  from  opposing  forces,  she 
had  learned  to  lie  when  the  occasion  demanded.  She  was 
only  entirely  frank  and  entirely  truthful  with  the  one 
person  whom  she  loved. 

He  put  down  his  glass  and  looked  at  her,  in  sudden, 
fixed  attention. 

"What's  that?" 

"I've  got  a  real,  genuine,  all-wool-yard-wide  beau." 

She  leaned  her  elbows  on  the  table,  holding  the  fig  to 
her  mouth,  her  thin  fingers  manipulating  the  skin  as  she 
sucked  the  pulp.  Her  eyes  were  full  of  laughter. 

"What  do  you  mean?" 

"Just  what  I'm  telling  you.  You  needn't  look  like  I'd 
said  he  was  a  defaulting  bank  cashier,  nor  so  surprised 
either.  It  ain't  flattering  to  your  only  child." 

Her  father  did  not  respond  to  her  gayety. 

"Look-a-here,  Panchita,"  he  began,  but  she  stepped 
him,  flapping  a  long  hand. 

"Cut  it  out,  Pop.  I  know  all  that.  You  needn't  come 
any  stern  parent  business  over  me.  Tm  on.  7  know  my 
way  about.  I  ain't  going  to  run  my  head  into  any  noose, 
or  tie  any  millstone  round  my  neck.  Don't  you  think  by 
this  time  you  can  trust  me?" 

Her  words  seemed  to  reassure  him.  The  bovine  in- 
tensity of  his  gaze  softened. 

"You've  had  a  heap  of  beaux,"  he  said  moodily. 

"And  kept  every  last  one  of  'em  in  their  place,  except 
for  those  I  kicked  out.  And  they  got  to  their  place ;  my 
kick  landed  them  there." 

93 


Treasure  and  Trouble  Therewith 

"Who  is  he?" 

Pancha  returned  to  her  fig,  looking  over  its  wilted  skin 
for  clinging  titbits. 

"Named  Mayer,  a  foreigner — at  least  he's  born  here, 
but  he  looks  foreign  and  acts  foreign ;  hands  out  the  kind 
of  talk  you  read  in  books.  Awful  high  class." 

"Treats  you  respectful?" 

She  gave  him  a  withering  glance. 

"Respectful!  Treats  me  like  I'd  faint  if  he  spoke 
rough  or  break  if  he  touched  me.  I  ain't  ever  seen  any- 
thing so  choice.  You  said  I  was  thin — it's  keeping  up 
such  a  dignified  style  that's  worn  me  down." 

This  description  was  so  unlike  the  bandit's  idea  of 
love-making  that  he  became  incredulous. 

"How  do  you  know  he's  a  beau?  Looks  like  to  me  he 
was  just  marking  time." 

She  smiled,  the  secret  smile  of  a  woman  who  has  seen 
the  familiar  signs.  She  had  taken  another  fig  and  deli- 
cately breaking  it  open,  eyed  its  crimson  heart. 

"He's  jealous." 

"Who  of?" 

"Nobody,  anybody,  everybody."  She  began  to  laugh, 
and  putting  her  lips  to  the  fruit,  sucked,  and  then  drew 
them  away  stained  with  its  ruby  juice.  "He's  always 
trying  to  draw  me,  find  out  if  there  isn't  somebody  I 
like.  Pop,  you'd  laugh  if  you  could  hear  him  sniffing 
round  the  subject  like  a  cat  round  the  cream." 

"What  do  you  tell  him?" 

"Me?"  She  gave  him  a  scornful  cast  of  her  eye.  Her 
face  was  flushed,  and  with  her  crimsoned  mouth  and  shin- 
ing eyes  she  was  for  the  moment  beautiful.  "I  got  my 
pride.  I  told  him  the  truth  at  first,  and  when  he  wouldn't 
believe  me — 'Oh,  no,  there  must  be  someone' — I  says  to 
myself,  'All  right,  deary,  have  it  your  own  way,'  and  I 

94 


Michaels,  the  Miner 


jolly  him  along  now,"  she  laughed  with  joyous  memory. 
"I  got  him  good  and  guessing,  Pop." 

The  old  man  looked  dissatisfied. 

"I  ain't  much  stuck  on  this,  Panchita.  What  good 
are  you  goin'  to  get  out  of  it?" 

"Fun!"  she  cried,  throwing  the  fig  skin  on  the  table. 
"Don't  I  deserve  some  after  six  years?  If  he  wants  to 
act  like  a  fool  that's  his  affair,  and  believe  me,  he's  able 
to  take  care  of  himself.  And  so  am  I.  No  one  knows 
that  better  than  you  do,  deary." 

He  left  soon  after  that.  In  his  nomad  life,  with  its 
long  gaps  of  separation  from  her,  it  was  easy  for  him 
to  keep  his  movements  concealed  and  caution  had  become 
a  habit.  So  he  had  not  told  her  that  on  his  last  visit  to 
the  city  he  had  taken  a  room,  instead  of  going  to  one  of 
the  men's  hotels  that  dotted  the  Mission.  It  was  in  a 
battered,  dingy  house  that  crouched  in  shame-faced  decay 
behind  the  shrubs  and  palms  of  a  once  jaunty  garden. 
Mrs.  Meeker,  the  landlady,  was  a  respectable  woman  who 
had  seen  so  complete  an  extinction  of  fortune  that  she 
asked  nothing  of  her  few  lodgers  but  the  rent  in  advance 
and  a  decent  standard  of  sobriety.  To  the  bandit  it 
offered  a  seclusion  so  grateful  that  he  had  resolved  to 
keep  it,  a  hiding-place  to  which  he  could  steal  when  the 
longing  for  his  child  would  not  be  denied. 

The  house  was  not  far  from  the  Vallejo  Hotel,  on  a 
cross  street  off  one  of  the  main  avenues  of  traffic.  As 
he  rounded  the  corner  he  saw  the  black  bushiness  of  its 
garden  and  then,  barring  the  night  sky,  the  skeleton  of 
a  new  building.  The  sight  gave  him  a  disagreeable  shock ; 
anything  that  let  more  life  and  light  into  that  secluded 
backwater  was  a  menace.  He  approached,  anxiously 
scanning  it.  It  took  the  place  of  old  rookeries,  de- 
molished in  his  absence,  one  side  rising  gaunt  and  high 

95 


Treasure  and  Trouble  Therewith 

against  Mrs.  Meeker's.  He  leaned  from  the  front  steps 
and  looked  over  the  fence ;  the  separation  between  the  two 
walls  was  not  more  than  two  or  three  feet. 

His  room  was  on  the  top  floor  in  the  back,  and  gain- 
ing it,  he  jerked  up  the  shade  and  looked  out.  Formerly 
a  row  of  dreary  yards  extended  to  the  houses  in  the  rear. 
Now  the  frame  of  the  new  building  filled  them  in,  pro- 
jecting in  sketchy  outline  to  the  end  of  the  lots.  Dis- 
turbed he  studied  it — four  stories,  a  hotel,  apartments, 
or  offices.  Whatever  it  was  it  would  be  bad  for  him, 
bringing  men  so  close  to  his  lair. 

He  stood  for  some  time  gazing  out,  saw  a  late,  lop- 
sided moon  swim  into  the  sky  and  by  its  light  the  yard 
below  develop  a  beauty  of  glistening  leaves  and  fretted 
shadows.  The  windows  of  the  houses  beyond  the  fence 
shone  bright,  glazed  with  a  pallid  luster.  Even  Mrs. 
Meeker's  stable,  wherein  she  kept  her  horse  and  cart,  the 
one  relic  saved  from  better  days,  stood  out  darkly  pic- 
turesque amid  the  frosted  silver  of  vines.  He  saw  nothing 
of  all  this,  only  the  black  skeleton  which  would  soon  be 
astir  with  the  life  he  shunned. 

He  drew  down  the  shade  and  dropped  heavily  into  a 
chair,  his  feet  sprawled,  his  chin  sunk  on  his  breast.  The 
single  gas  jet  emitted  a  torn  yellow  flame  that  issued 
from  the  burner  with  a  stuttering,  ripping  sound.  The 
light  gilded  the  bosses  of  his  face,  wax-smooth  above  the 
shadowed  hollows,  and  it  looked  even  older  than  it  had 
in  sleep.  His  spirit  drooped  in  a  somber  exhaustion — 
he  was  so  tired  of  it  all,  of  the  stealth,  the  watchfulness, 
the  endless  vigilance,  the  lack  of  rest.  One  more  coup, 
one  lucky  haul,  and  he  was  done.  Then  there  would  be 
the  ranch,  peace,  security,  an  honest  ending,  and  Pancha, 
believing,  never  knowing. 


CHAPTER  XI 

THE  SOLID  GOLD  NUGGET 

THE  autumn  was  drawing  to  an  end  and  the  winter 
season  settling  into  its  gait.  Everybody  was  back 
in  town,  at  least  Mrs.  Wesson  said  so  in  her  col- 
umn, where  she  also  prophesied  a  program  of  festivities 
for  the  coming  six  months.  This  was  reassuring  as  Mrs. 
Wesson  was  supposed  to  know,  and  anyway  there  were 
signs  of  it  already — a  first  tentative  outbreak  of  parties, 
little  dinners  cropping  up  here  and  there.  People  who 
did  things  were  trailing  back  from  Europe,  bringing  new 
clothes  and  ideas  with  which  to  abash  the  stay-at-homes. 
Big  houses  were  opening  and  little  houses  that  had  been 
open  all  along  were  trying  to  pretend  they  had  been 
shut.  Furs  were  being  hung  on  clothes  lines  and  rain- 
coats brought  out  of  closets.  Violets  would  soon  be 
blooming  around  the  roots  of  the  live  oaks  and  the  Marin 
County  hills  be  green.  In  short  the  San  Francisco  winter 
was  at  band. 

The  Alston  house  had  been  cleaned  and  set  in  order 
from  the  cellar  to  the  roof  and  in  its  dustless,  shining 
spaciousness  Lorry  sat  down  and  faced  her  duties.  The 
time  had  come  for  her  to  act.  Chrystie  must  take  her 
place  among  her  fellows,  be  set  forth,  garnished  and 
launched  as  befitted  the  daughter  of  George  Alston.  It 
was  an  undertaking  before  which  Lorry's  spirit  quailed, 
but  it  was  part  of  the  obligation  she  had  assumed. 
Though  she  had  accepted  the  idea,  the  translation  from 
contemplation  to  action  was  slow.  In  fact  she  might 

97 


Treasure  and  Trouble  Therewith 

have  stayed  contemplating  had  not  a  conversation  one 
night  with  Chrystie  nerved  her  to  a  desperate  courage. 

The  girls  occupied  two  adjoining  rooms  on  the  side 
of  the  house  which  overlooked  the  garden.  Across  the 
hall  was  their  parents'  room,  exactly  the  same  as  it  had 
been  when  Minnie  Alston  died  there.  Behind  it  were 
others,  large,  high-ceilinged,  with  vast  beds  and  heavy 
curtains.  These  had  been  tenanted  at  long  intervals, 
once  by  an  uncle  from  the  East,  since  deceased,  and  lately 
by  the  Barlow  girls,  Chrystie's  friends  from  San  Mateo. 
That  had  been  quite  an  occasion.  Chrystie  talked  of  it 
as  she  did  of  going  to  the  opera  or  on  board  the  English 
man-of-war. 

Lorry  was  sitting  in  front  of  the  glass  brushing  her 
hair,  when  Chrystie,  supposedly  retired,  came  in  fully 
dressed.  She  dropped  onto  the  side  of  the  bed,  watching 
her  sister,  with  her  head  tilted,  her  eye  dreamily  ru- 
minant. 

"What's  the  matter,  dear?"  said  Lorry.  "Why  aren't 
you  in  bed?" 

Chrystie  yawned. 

"I  can't  possibly  imagine  except  that  I  don't  want  to 
be  there,"  came  through  the  yawn. 

"Aren't  you  sleepy?" 

"In  a  sort  of  way."  She  yawned  again  and  stretched 
with  a  wide  spread  of  arms.  "I  seem  to  be  sleepy  on  the 
outside  but  it  doesn't  go  down  into  my  soul." 

Lorry,  drawing  the  comb  through  her  long  hair  which 
fell  in  a  shining  sweep  from  her  forehead  to  the  chair 
seat,  wanted  this  explained.  But  her  sister  vaguely  shook 
her  head  and  stared  at  the  carpet,  then,  after  a  pause, 
murmured : 

"I  wish  something  would  happen." 

"What  kind  of  thing?" 

98 


The  Solid  Gold  Nugget 


"Oh,  just  something — any  old  thing  would  be  a 
change." 

Lorry  stopped  combing. 

"Do  you  mean  that  you're  dull?"  she  asked.  The 
worried  gravity  of  her  face  did  not  fit  the  subject. 

"That  must  be  it."  Chrystie  raised  her  eyes  and 
looked  at  the  cornice,  her  red  lips  parted,  her  glance 
becoming  animated.  "Yes,  of  course,  that's  it — I'm  dull. 
Why  didn't  I  see  it  myself?  You've  put  it  before  me  in 
letters  of  fire — I'm  dreadfully  dull." 

"What  would  you  like  to  do?" 

"Have  some  good  times,  lots  of  them.  There  aren't 
enough  of  them  this  way.  We  can't  go  to  the  theater  too 
often  or  we'd  get  used  to  it,  and  I  can't  get  the  Barlows 
to  come  up  here  every  week,  they  have  such  crowds  of 
engagements." 

She  sighed  at  the  memory  of  the  Barlows'  superior 
advantages  and  the  sigh  sounded  like  a  groan  of  reproacli 
in  Lorry's  ears.  Innocently,  unconsciously,  unaccusingly, 
Chrystie  was  rubbing  in  the  failure  of  her  stewardship. 
She  combed  at  the  ends  of  her  hair,  her  eyes  blind  to  its 
burnished  brightness. 

"Would  you  like  to  have  a  party  here?"  she  said  in  a 
solemn  voice. 

Chrystie's  glance  was  diverted  from  the  cornice,  wide 
open  and  astonished. 

"A  party  here,  in  this  house?" 

"Yes,  it's  big  enough.  There's  plenty  of  room  and 
we  can  afford  it." 

"But,  Lorry" — the  proposition  was  so  startling  that 
she  could  hardly  believe  it — "a  real  party?" 

"Any  kind  of  a  party  you  want.  We  might  have 
several.  We  could  begin  with  a  dinner;  Fong  can  cook 
anything." 

99 


Treasure  and  Trouble  Therewith 

Chrystie,  the  idea  accepted  and  held  in  dazzled  con- 
templation, suddenly  saw  a  flaw. 

"But  where  would  we  get  any  men?" 

"We  know  some  and  we  could  find  some  more." 

"You  talk  as  if  you  could  find  them  scattered  about 
on  the  ground  the  way  they  found  nuggets  in  '49.  Let's 
count  our  nuggets."  She  held  up  the  spread  fingers  of 
a  large  white  hand,  bending  one  down  with  each  name. 
"There's  Charlie  Crowder  if  he  can  get  off,  and  his  friend 
Robinson  in  the  express  company,  and  Roy  Barlow,  whom 
I  know  so  well  I  could  recite  him  in  my  sleep,  and  Mrs. 
Kirkham's  grandnephew  who  looks  like  a  child — and — and 
— good  gracious,  Lorry,  is  that  all  our  nuggets?" 

"We  could  have  some  of  those  young  men  whose 
mothers  knew  ours." 

"You  said  you  didn't  like  them." 

"I  know  I  did,  but  if  you're  going  to  give  parties  you 
have  to  have  people  you  don't  like  to  fill  up." 

"Um,"  Chrystie  pondered,  "I  suppose  you  must.  Oh, 
there's  Marquis  de  Lafayette." 

"Yes,"  said  Lorry,  "I  thought  of  him." 

Chrystie's  eyes,  bright  with  question,  rested  on  her 
sister. 

"You  can't  exactly  call  him  a  nugget." 

"Why  not?" 

"Because  he  doesn't  shine,  darling." 

This  explanation  appeared  to  strike  its  maker  as  a 
consummate  witticism.  She  fell  back  on  the  bed  in 
spasms  of  laughter. 

Lorry  looked  annoyed. 

"He's  nicer  than  any  of  the  others,  I  think." 

"Of  course  he  is,  but  he's  been  buried  too  long  in  the 
soil;  he  needs  polishing."  She  rolled  over  on  the  bed  in 
her  laughter. 

100 


The  Solid  Gold  Nugget 


Lorry  began  to  braid  her  hair,  her  face  grave. 

"I  don't  think  things  like  that  matter  a  bit,  and  I  don't 
see  at  all  what  you're  laughing  at." 

"I'm  laughing  at  Marquis  de  Lafayette.  I  can't  help 
it — something  about  his  hands  and  his  manners.  They're 
so  ponderously  polite;  maybe  it's  from  waiting  on  table 
in  the  students'  boarding  house." 

"I  never  knew  you  were  a  snob  before,  Chrystie." 

"I  guess  I  am.  Isn't  it  awful?  Oh,  dear,  I've  laughed 
so  much  I've  got  a  pain.  It's  perfectly  true,  I'm  a  snob. 
I  like  my  nuggets  all  smooth  and  shiny  with  no  knobs  or 
bits  of  earth  clinging  to  them." 

Lorry's  hair  was  done  and  she  rose  and  approached 
her  sister. 

"You've  spoiled  my  bed.     Get  off  it  and  go." 

But  Chrystie  would  not  move.  With  her  face  red  and 
the  tears  of  her  laughter  standing  in  her  eyes  she  gazed 
at  the  serious  one. 

"Lorry,  darling,  you  look  so  sweet  in  that  wrapper 
with  your  hair  slicked  back.  You  look  like  somebody  I 
know.  Who  is  it?  Oh,  of  course,  the  Blessed  Damozel. 
leaning  on  the  bar  of  Heaven,  only  it's  the  bar  of  the 
bed." 

"Don't  be  silly,  Chrystie.     Get  up." 

"Never  till  I  have  your  solemn,  eternal,  sworn-to 
promise." 

"What  promise?" 

"To  give  that  party." 

"You  have  it— I  said  I'd  do  it  and  I  will." 

"And  get  nuggets  for  it?" 

"Yes." 

"All  right,  I'll  go." 

She  sat  up,  rosy,  disheveled,  her  hair  hanging  in  a 
tousled  mop  from  its  loosened  pins.  Catching  Lorry's 

101 


Treasure,  and  Trouble  Therewith 

hand,  she  squeezed  it,  looking  up  at  her  like  an  affection- 
ate, drowsy  child. 

"Dear  little  Blessed  Damozel,  I  love  you  a  lot  even 
though  you  are  high-minded  and  think  I'm  a  snob." 

She  had  been  in  her  room  for  some  minutes,  Lorry 
already  in  bed  with  a  light  at  her  elbow  and  a  book  in 
her  hand,  when  she  reappeared  in  the  doorway.  The 
pins  were  gone  from  her  hair  and  it  lay  in  a  yellow  tangle 
on  her  shoulders,  bare  and  milk-white.  Looking  at  her 
sister  with  round,  shocked  eyes,  she  said : 

"It's  just  come  to  me  how  awful  it  is  that  two  young, 
beautiful  and  aristocratic  ladies  should  have  to  hunt  so 
hard  for  nuggets.  It's  tragic,  Lorry.  It's  scandalous" 
and  she  disappeared. 

Lorry  couldn't  read  after  that.  She  put  out  the  light 
and  made  plans  in  the  dark. 

The  next  day  she  rose,  grimly  determined,  and  girded 
herself  for  action.  In  the  morning,  giving  Fong  the 
orders,  she  told  him  she  was  going  to  have  a  dinner,  and 
in  the  afternoon  went  to  see  Mrs.  Kirkham. 

Mrs.  Kirkham  had  once  been  a  friend  of  Minnie  Al- 
ston's and  she  was  the  only  one  of  that  now  diminishing 
group  with  whom  Lorry  felt  at  ease.  Had  the  others 
known  of  the  visit  and  its  cause  they  would  have  thrown 
up  their  hands  and  said,  "Just  like  that  girl."  Mrs. 
Kirkham  was  nobody  now,  the  last  person  to  go  to  for 
help  in  social  matters.  In  the  old  days  in  Nevada  her 
husband  had  been  George  Alston's  paymaster,  and  she 
had  held  her  head  high  and  worn  diamonds. 

But  that  was  ages  ago.  Long  before  the  date  of  this 
story  the  high  head  had  been  lowered  and  the  diamonds 
sold,  all  but  those  that  encircled  the  miniature  of  her 
only  baby,  dead  before  the  Con-Virginia  slump.  She 
lived  in  a  little  flat  up  toward  the  cemeteries,  second 


The  Solid  Gold  Nugget 


floor,  door  to  the  left,  and  please  press  the  push  button. 
In  her  small  parlor  the  pictures  of  the  Bonanza  Kings 
hung  on  the  walls  and  she  was  wont,  an  old  rheumatic 
figure  in  shiny  black  with  the  miniature  pinned  at  her 
withered  throat,  to  point  to  these  and  tell  stories  of  the 
great  Iliad  of  the  Comstock. 

She  was  very  fond  of  Lorry  and  when  she  heard  her 
predicament — a  party  to  be  given  and  not  enough  men — 
patted  her  hand  and  nodded  understandingly.  Times 
were  changed — ah,  if  the  girls  had  been  in  Virginia  in 
the  seventies !  And  after  a  brisk  canter  through  her 
memories  (she  always  had  to  have  that)  galloped  back 
into  the  present  and  its  needs.  Lorry  went  home  reassured 
and  soothed.  You  could  always  count  on  Mrs.  Kirk- 
ham's  taking  hold  and  helping  you  through. 

The  old  lady  was  put  on  her  mettle,  flattered  by  the 
appeal,  made  to  feel  she  was  still  a  living  force.  Also 
she  would  have  done  anything  in  the  world  for  Minnie's 
girls.  She  consulted  with  her  niece,  well  married  and 
socially  aspiring  if  not  yet  installed  in  the  citadel.  It 
was  a  happy  thought;  the  niece  had  the  very  thing,  "a 
delightful  gentleman,"  lately  arrived  in  the  city.  So  it 
fell  out  that  Boye  Mayer,  under  the  chaperonage  of  Mrs. 
Kirkham,  was  brought  to  call  and  asked  to  fill  a  seat  at 
the  formidable  dinner. 

Formidable  was  hardly  a  strong  enough  word.  It  ad- 
vanced on  Lorry  like  a  darkling  doom.  Once  she  had  set 
its  machinery  in  motion  it  seemed  to  rush  forward  with  a 
vengeful  momentum.  Everybody  accepted  but  Charlie 
Crowder,  who  could  not  get  off,  and  Mark  Burrage,  who 
wrote  her  a  short,  itiff  note  saying  he  "was  unable  to 
attend."  For  a  space  that  made  her  oblivious  to  the 
larger,  surrounding  distress.  It  was  a  little  private  and 
particular  sting  for  herself  that  concentrated  her 

103 


Treasure  and  Tremble  Therewith 

thoughts  upon  the  hurt  it  left.  After  she  read  it  her 
face  had  flushed,  and  she  had  dropped  it  into  her  desk 
snapping  the  lid  down  hard.  If  he  didn't  want  to  come 
he  could  stay  away.  Men  didn't  like  her  anyway;  she 
knew  it  and  she  wasn't  going  to  make  any  mistakes.  Her 
concern  in  life  was  Chrystie  and  it  was  being  pointed  out 
to  her  that  she  wasn't  supposed  to  have  any  other. 

Finally  the  evening  came  and  everything  was  ready. 
Fong's  talents,  after  years  of  disuse,  rose  in  the  passion 
of  the  artist  and  produced  a  feast  worthy  of  the  past. 
A  florist  decorated  the  table  and  the  lower  floor.  Mother's 
jewels  were  taken  out  of  the  safety  deposit  box,  and 
Lorry  and  Chrystie,  in  French  costumes  with  their  hair 
dressed  so  that  they  looked  like  strangers,  gazed  upon 
each  other  in  the  embowered  drawing-room  realizing  that 
they  had  brought  it  upon  themselves  and  must  see  it 
through. 

The  start  was  far  from  promising;  none  of  them 
seemed  able  to  live  up  to  it.  Aunt  Ellen  kept  following 
the  strange  waiters  with  suspicious  eyes,  then  looking 
down  the  glittering  table  at  Lorry  like  a  worried  dog. 
And  Chrystie,  who  had  been  all  blithe  expectation  up  to 
the  time  she  dressed,  was  suddenly  shattered  by  nervous- 
ness, making  detached,  breathless  remarks  about  the 
weather  and  then  drinking  copious  draughts  of  water. 
As  for  Lorry,  she  felt  herself  so  small  and  shriveled  that 
her  new  dress  hung  on  her  in  folds  and  her  mouth  was  so 
dry  she  could  hardly  articulate. 

It  was  awful.  The  guests  seemed  to  feel  the  blight  and 
wither  under  it,  eating  carefully  as  if  fearing  sounds  of 
mastication  might  intrude  on  the  long,  recurring  silences. 
There  was  a  time  when  Lorry  thought  she  couldn't  bear 
it,  had  a  distracted  temptation  to  leap  to  her  feet,  say 
she  was  faint  and  rush  from  the  place.  Then  came  the 

104 


The  Solid  Gold  Nugget 


turn  in  the  tide — Mr.  Mayer,  the  strange  man  Mrs. 
Kirkham  had  produced,  did  it.  She  had  noticed  that  he 
alone  seemed  free  from  the  prevailing  discomfort,  looked 
undisturbed  and  calm,  glancing  at  the  table,  the  guests, 
herself  and  Chrystie.  But  it  was  not  until  the  fish  that 
he  started  to  talk.  It  was  about  the  fish,  but  it  branched 
away  from  the  fish,  radiated  out  from  it  to  other  fish,  to 
the  waters  where  the  other  fish  swam,  to  the  countries 
that  gave  on  the  waters,  to  the  people  who  lived  in  the 
countries. 

He  woke  them  all  up,  held  them  entranced.  Lorry 
couldn't  be  sure  whether  he  really  was  so  clever  or  seemed 
so  by  contrast  with  them,  but  she  thought  it  was  the 
latter.  It  didn't  matter;  nothing  mattered  except  that 
he  was  making  it  go.  And  at  first  she  had  been  loath  to 
ask  him!  She  hadn't  liked  him,  thought  he  was  too 
suavely  elaborate,  a  sort  of  overdone  imitation.  Well, 
thank  goodness  she  had,  for  he  simply  took  the  dinner 
which  was  settling  down  to  a  slow,  sure  death  and  made 
it  come  to  life. 

Presently  they  were  all  talking,  to  their  partners, 
across  the  table,  even  to  Aunt  Ellen.  The  exhilarating 
sound  of  voices  rose  to  a  hum,  then  a  concerted  babble 
broken  by  laughter.  It  grew  animated,  it  grew 
sparkling,  it  grew  brilliant.  Chrystie,  with  parted  lips 
and  glistening  eyes,  became  as  artlessly  amusing  as  she 
was  in  the  bosom  of  her  family.  She  was  delightful,  her 
frank  enjoyment  a  charming  spectacle.  Lorry,  in  that 
seat  which  so  short  a  time  before  had  seemed  but  one 
remove  from  the  electric  chair,  now  reigned  as  from  a 
throne,  proudly  surveying  the  splendors  of  her  table  and 
the  gladness  of  her  guests. 

When  it  was  over,  the  last  carriage  wheels  rumbling 
down  the  street,  the  girls  stood  in  the  hall  and  looked  at 

105 


Treasure  and  Trouble  Therewith 

one  another.  Aunt  Ellen,  creaking  in  her  new  silks, 
toiled  up  the  stairs,  an  old,  shaky  hand  on  the  balustrade. 

"Come  up,  girls,"  she  quavered;  "you  must  be  dead 
tired." 

"Well,"  breathed  Lorry  with  questioning  eyes  on  her 
sister,  "how  was  it?" 

Chrystie  jumped  at  her  and  folded  her  in  a  rapturous 
embrace. 

"Oh,  it  was  maddening,  blissful,  rip-roarious !  Oh, 
Lorry,  it  was  the  grandest  thing  since  the  water  came  up 
to  Montgomery  street !" 

"You  did  enjoy  it,  didn't  you?" 

"Enj  oy  it !  Why,  I  never  had  such  a  galumptious  time 
in  my  life.  They  all  did.  The  Barlow  girls  are  on  their 
heads  about  it — they  said  so  and  I  saw  it." 

"I  think  everybody  had  a  good  time." 

"Of  course  they  did.  But,  oh,  didn't  you  nearly  die 
at  the  beginning?  I  was  sick.  Honestly,  Lorry,  I  felt 
something  sinking  in  me  down  here,  and  my  mouth  get- 
ting all  sideways.  If  it  hadn't  been  for  that  man  I'd 
have  just  slipped  out  of  my  seat  under  the  table  and  died 
there  at  their  feet." 

"He  saved  it,"  said  Lorry  solemnly,  as  one  might  men- 
tion a  doctor  who  had  brought  back  from  death  a  beloved 
relative. 

The  gas  was  out  and  they  were  mounting  the  stairs, 
arms  entwined,  warm  young  flesh  on  warm  young  flesh. 

"Isn't  he  a  thoroughbred,  isn't  he  a  gem!"  Chrystie 
chanted.  "I'd  like  to  go  to  Mrs.  Kirkham's  tomorrow, 
climb  up  her  front  stairs  on  my  knees  and  knock  my  fore- 
head on  the  sill  of  her  parlor  door." 

"Did  you  really  like  him?  I  think  he's  clever  and 
entertaining  but  I  wouldn't  want  him  for  a  friend." 

"I  didn't  think  about  him  that  way,  I  just  sort  of 

106 


The  Solid  Gold  Nugget 


stood  off  and  admired.     He's  the  most  magnetic  thing!" 

"Yes,  I  suppose  he  is,  but " 

"There  are  no  buts  about  it."  Then  in  the  voice  of 
knowledge,  "I'll  tell  you  what  he  is,  I'll  put  it  in  terms 
you  can  understand — he's  the  perfect  specimen  of  the 
real,  genuine,  solid  gold  nugget." 


CHAPTER  XH 

A  KISS 

AFTER  the  dinner  Mayer  walked  downtown.  He 
had  been  a  good  deal  surprised,  rather  amused, 
and  in  the  drawing-room  afterward  extremely 
bored.  His  amusement  was  sardonic.  He  grinned  at  the 
thought  of  himself  in  such  company  and  wondered  if  it 
could  have  happened  anywhere  but  California.  Those 
two  girls,  rich  and  young,  were  apparently  free  to  ask 
anybody  into  their  house.  It  was  curious,  and  he  saw 
them  similarly  placed  in  Europe;  they  would  have  been 
guarded  like  the  royal  treasure,  chiefly  to  keep  such  men 
as  himself  out. 

The  splendor  of  the  entertainment  had  surprised  him. 
He  was  becoming  used  to  the  Californian's  prodigal  dis- 
play of  flowers,  but  such  a  dinner,  served  to  unapprecia- 
tive  youth,  was  something  new.  The  whole  affair  had 
been  a  combination  of  an  intelligent  luxury  and  a  rank 
crudity — food  fit  for  kings  set  before  boys  and  girls  who 
had  no  more  appreciation  of  its  excellence  than  babies 
would  have  had.  And  the  silver  on  the  table,  cumbrously 
magnificent,  it  was  worth  a  small  fortune. 

Outside  the  humor  of  his  own  presence  there,  he  had 
found  the  affair  tedious,  especially  that  last  hour  in  the 
drawing-room.  It  was  the  sort  of  place  that  had  always 
bored  him  even  when  he  was  young,  governed  by  narrow, 
feminine  standards,  breathing  a  ponderous  respectability 
from  every  curtain  fold.  Neither  of  the  girls  had  been 
attractive.  The  elder,  the  small,  pale  one,  was  a  prim, 

108 


A  Kiss 

stiff  little  thing.  The  other  was  nothing  but  a  gawky 
child;  fine  coloring — these  Californians  all  had  it — but 
with  no  charm  or  mystery.  They  were  like  the  fruit,  all 
run  to  size  but  without  much  flavor.  He  thought  the 
elder  girl  had  some  intelligence ;  one  would  have  to  be  on 
one's  guard  with  her.  He  made  a  mental  note  of  it,  for 
he  intended  going  there  again — it  was  the  best  meal  he 
had  eaten  since  he  left  New  York. 

The  night  was  warm  and  soft,  a  moon  rising  over  the 
housetops.  He  breathed  deep  of  the  balmy  air,  inhaling 
it  gratefully.  After  such  a  constrained  three  hours  he 
felt  the  need  of  relaxation,  of  easy  surroundings,  of  an 
expansion  to  his  accustomed  dimensions.  Swinging 
down  the  steep  street  between  the  dark  gardens  and  flank- 
ing walls,  he  surveyed  the  lights  of  the  city's  livelier 
center  and  thought  of  something  to  do  that  would  take 
the  curse  of  the  dinner  off  his  spirit. 

A  half  hour  later  Pancha,  emerging  from  the  alley  that 
led  to  the  Albion's  stage  door,  saw  a  tall,  familiar  shape 
approach  from  the  shadows.  Her  heart  gave  a  jump, 
and  as  her  hand  was  enfolded  in  a  strong,  possessive 
grasp,  she  could  not  control  the  sudden  quickening  of 
her  breath. 

"Oh,  it's  you!  Gee,  how  you  scared  me,"  she  said,  to 
account  for  it. 

He  squeezed  the  hand,  murmuring  apologies,  his  vanity 
gratified,  for  he  knew  no  man  at  the  stage  door  would 
ever  scare  Pancha. 

As  it  was  so  fine  a  night  he  suggested  that  she  walk 
back  to  the  hotel  and  let  him  escort  her,  to  which,  with  a 
glance  at  the  moon,  and  a  sniff  of  the  mellow  air,  she 
agreed. 

So  they  fared  forth,  two  dark  figures,  choosing 
quieter  streets  than  those  she  usually  trod,  the  tapping 

109 


Treasure  and  Trouble  Therewith 

of  her  high  heels  falling  with  a  smart  regularity  on  the 
stillness  held  between  the  silver-washed  walls. 

They  were  rather  silent,  conversation  broken  by  periods 
when  their  mingled  footfalls  beat  clear  on  the  large, 
enfolding  mutter  of  the  city  sinking  to  sleep.  It  was  his 
fault;  heretofore  he  had  been  the  leader,  conducting  her 
by  a  crafty  discursiveness  toward  those  confidences  she 
so  resolutely  withheld.  But  tonight  he  did  not  want  to 
talk,  trailing  lazy  steps  beside  her,  casting  thoughtful 
glances  upward  at  the  vast,  illumined  sky.  It  made  her 
nervous ;  there  was  something  of  a  deep,  disturbing  inti- 
macy about  it;  not  a  sweet  and  soothing  intimacy,  but 
portentous  and  agitating.  She  tried  to  be  herself,  laid 
about  for  bright  things  to  say  and  found  she  could  pump 
up  no  defiant  buoyancy,  her  tongue  clogged,  her  spirit 
oppressed  by  a  disintegrating  inner  distress.  It  did  not 
make  matters  any  better  when  he  said  in  a  dreamy  tone : 

"Why  are  you  so  quiet  ?" 

"I've  worked  hard  tonight.  I'm  tired  and  you're  walk- 
ing so  fast." 

He  was  immediately  contrite,  slackening  his  step, 
which  in  truth  was  very  slow. 

"Oh,  Pancha,  what  a  brute  I  am.  Why  didn't  you 
tell  me?"  And  he  took  her  hand  and  tried  to  draw  it 
through  his  arm. 

But  she  resisted,  pulling  away  from  him  almost  pet- 
tishly, shrinking  from  his  touch. 

"No,  no,  let  me  alone.     I  like  to  walk  by  myself." 

He  drew  back  with  a  slight  shrug,  more  amused  than 
repulsed.  Nevertheless  he  was  rather  sorry  he  had  sug- 
gested the  walk,  he  had  never  known  her  to  be  less  enter- 
taining. 

"Always  proud,  always  independent,  always  keeping 
her  guard  up."  He  cast  a  questioning  side  glance  at 

110 


A  Kiss 


her   face,   grave  and  pale  by  his   shoulder.      "You  wild 
thing,  can  no  one  tame  you?" 

"Why  do  you  say  I'm  wild?" 

"Because  you  are.  How  long  have  I  known  you? 
Since  early  in  September  and  I  don't  get  any  nearer. 
You  still  keep  me  guessing." 

"About  what?" 

"About  what?19  He  leaned  down  and  spied  at  her  pro- 
file. "About  yourself." 

"Oh,  me!" 

"Yes,  you — what  else?  You're  the  most  secretive  little 
sphinx  outside  Egypt." 

She  did  not  answer  for  a  moment.  She  had  been  secre- 
tive, but  it  was  about  the  humble  surroundings  of  her 
youth,  those  ignominious  beginnings  of  hers.  Of  this  she 
could  not  bring  herself  to  tell,  fearful  that  it  would  lower 
her  in  his  esteem.  She  saw  him,  hearing  of  the  Buon 
Gusto  restaurant  and  the  life  along  the  desert,  withdraw- 
ing from  her  in  shocked  repugnance.  About  other 
things — the  stage,  the  lovers — she  had  been  frank,  almost 
confidential. 

"I  don't  see  why  you  say  that,"  she  protested;  "I've 
told  you  any  amount  of  stuff." 

"But  not  everything.     You  know  that,  Pancha." 

He  was  now  so  keen,  like  a  dog  with  its  nose  to  the 
scent,  that  he  forgot  her  recent  refusal  and  hooked  his 
hand  inside  her  arm.  This  time  she  did  not  draw  away 
and  they  walked  on,  close-linked,  alone  in  the  moonlit 
street.  Conscious  of  her  reticences,  ashamed  of  her  lack 
of  candor,  and  yet  afraid  to  make  damaging  revelations, 
she  said  defensively: 

"I've  told  you  as  much  as  I  want  to  tell." 

He  seized  on  that,  in  his  eagerness  pressing  her  arm 
against  his  side,  bending  over  her  like  a  lover. 

Ill 


Treasure  and  Trouble  Therewith 


"Yes,  but  not  all.  And  why  not  all?  Why  should  you 
keep  anything  from  me?" 

"But  why  should  I  tell  you?"  she  asked,  her  loitering 
step  coming  to  a  stop. 

As  the  situation  stood  the  question  was  a  poser.  He 
did  not  want  to  be  her  lover,  had  never  intended  it;  his 
easy  gallantry  had  meant  nothing.  But  now,  seeing  her 
averted  face,  the  eyes  down-drooped,  he  could  think  of 
no  reply  that  was  not  love-making.  She  stole  a  swift 
look  at  him,  recognized  his  hesitation,  and  felt  a  stab,  for 
it  was  the  love-making  answer  she  had  expected. 
The  mortified  anger  of  the  woman  who  has  made  a  bid 
for  tenderness  and  seen  herself  mistaken  surged  up  in 
her. 

She  jerked  her  arm  violently  out  of  his  grasp  and 
walked  forward  at  a  swinging  pace. 

"What's  the  matter?"  he  said,  chasing  at  her  heels. 
"Are  you  angry?" 

"I  shouldn't  wonder,"  she  threw  over  her  shoulder. 
"Being  nagged  at  for  fun  doesn't  appeal  to  me." 

"But  what  do  you  mean  ? — I'm  all  at  sea." 

She  suddenly  brought  up  short,  and  wheeling,  faced 
him,  her  face  lowering,  her  breath  quick: 

"I'm  the  one  to  say  that,  for  I  don't  get  you,  Boye 
Mayer,  I  don't  see  what  you're  up  to.  But  sometimes 
I  think  you've  just  come  snooping  round  me  to  find  out 
something.  You  come  and  you  go,  always  so  curious, 
always  wanting  to  know,  pussy-footing  round  with  your 
questions  and  your  compliments.  What's  on  your 
mind?" 

Mayer  found  himself  in  an  impasse.  She  knew  him  too 
well  and  she  was  too  angry  to  be  diverted  with  the  tem- 
porizing lightness  of  their  early  acquaintance.  There 
was  only  one  thing  to  say  to  her,  and — the  cause  of  her 


A  Kiss 


excitement  plain  to  his  informed  mind — it  was  not  diffi- 
cult to  say. 

"Pancha,"  he  pleaded,  "you  don't  understand." 

"You  bet  I  don't  and  I  want  to.  I'd  like  to  have  it 
explained — I'd  like  to  know  what  you  hang  round  me  for. 
Do  you  think  I'm  hiding  something?  Do  you  think  I'm 
a  criminal?" 

"I  think  you're  the  most  charming  girl  in  the  world," 
he  protested. 

She  gave  a  smothered  sound  of  rage  and  started  off, 
faster  than  ever,  down  the  street.  This  time  he  kept  up 
with  her,  and  rounding  a  corner  the  two  lamps  at  the  foot 
of  the  Vallejo's  steps  loomed  up  close  at  hand. 

"Stop,"  he  said.  "Wait."  He  had  no  idea  the  hotel 
was  so  near,  and  surprised  at  the  sight  of  it  his  voice 
became  suddenly  imperious  and  he  seized  her  arm  with  a 
dominating  grip.  She  tried  to  jerk  it  away,  but  he  held 
it  and  drew  her,  stiff  and  averse,  toward  him. 

"You  foolish  one,"  he  whispered.  "Why,  don't  you 
see?  I  hang  around  because  I  can't  help  it.  I  come 
because  I  can't  stay  away — I  want  to  know  about  you 
because  I'm  jealous  of  every  man  that  ever  looked  at 
you." 

With  the  last  word  he  threw  his  arm  about  her  and 
snatched  her  close.  Against  him  she  suddenly  relaxed, 
melted  into  a  thing  of  yielding  softness,  while  his  lips 
touched  a  cheek  like  a  burning  rose  petal. 

The  next  moment  she  was  gone.  He  had  a  glimpse  of 
her  on  the  Vallejo  steps  in  swallow-swift  silhouette  and 
then  heard  the  bang  of  the  door. 

In  her  room  Pancha  moved  about  mechanically,  doing 
the  accustomed  things.  She  lighted  the  light,  took  off 
her  hat  and  jacket,  brought  the  milk  from  the  window 
sill.  Then,  with  the  bottle  on  the  table  beside  her,  she 

113 


Treasure  and  Trouble  Therewith 

_ — . __ — , 

sat  down,  her  hands  in  her  lap,  her  eyes  on  space.  She 
was  as  motionless  as  a  statue,  save  for  the  breaths  that 
lifted  her  chest.  She  sat  that  way  for  a  long  time,  her 
only  movements  a  shifting  of  her  blank  gaze  or  a  respira- 
tion deeper  than  the  others.  She  saw  nothing  of  what 
her  glance  rested  on,  heard  none  of  the  decreasing  mid- 
night sounds  in  the  street  or  the  house  about  her.  An 
intensity  of  feeling  had  lifted  her  to  a  plane  where  the 
familiar  and  habitual  had  no  more  place  than  had  pre- 
monitions and  forebodings. 


CHAPTER  XIII 

FOOLS  IN  THEIR  FOLLY 

THE  ZINGARA"  had  run  its  course  and  given  place 
to  "The  Gray  Lady,"  which  had  not  pleased  the 
public.  The  papers  said  the  leading  role  did  not 
show  Miss  Lopez  off  to  the  greatest  advantage  and  the 
audiences  thinned,  for  Miss  Lopez  had  transformed  the 
Albion  from  a  house  of  light  opera  to  a  temple  enshrin- 
ing a  star.  The  management,  grumbling  over  their  mis- 
take, laid  about  for  something  that  would  give  the  star 
a  chance  to  exhibit  those  qualities  which  had  deflected 
so  many  dollars  from  the  "Eastern  attractions"  to  their 
own  box  office. 

Charlie  Crowder  and  Mark  Burrage,  walking  together 
in  the  early  night,  turned  into  the  Albion  to  have  a  look 
at  the  house  and  see  Pancha  in  the  last  act.  They  stood 
in  the  back,  surveying  the  rows  of  heads  in  a  dark  level, 
against  the  glaring  picture  of  the  stage,  upon  which, 
picked  out  by  the  spotlight,  Pancha  stood  singing  her 
final  solo.  Crowder's  eye  dropped  from  the  solitary 
central  figure  to  the  audience  and  noted  gaps  in  the  lines, 
unusual  in  the  Albion  and  predicting  "The  Gray  Lady's" 
speedy  demise.  As  the  curtain  fell  he  told  Mark  he  was 
"going  behind"  for  a  word  with  his  friend,  she  would 
need  cheering  up,  and  Mark,  nodding,  said  he'd  move 
along,  he  had  work  to  do  at  home. 

The  floor  of  heads  broke  as  though  upheaved  by  an 
earthquake,  and  the  house  rose,  rustling  and  murmurous, 
and  began  crowding  into  the  aisles.  The  young  man, 

115 


Treasure  and  Trouble  Therewith 

leaning  against  the  rail  behind  the  last  row,  watched  11 
a  dense,  coagulated  mass,  animated  by  a  single  impulse 
and  moving  as  a  unit.  Crowding  up  the  aisle  it  looked 
like  a  thick  dark  serpent,  uncoiling  its  slow  length, 
writhing  toward  the  exit,  the  faces  turned  toward  him  a 
pattern  of  pale  dots  on  its  back.  Among  them  at  first 
unnoticed  by  his  vaguely  roving  glance  were  three  he 
knew — the  two  Alston  girls  and  Aunt  Ellen. 

It  was  always  hot  and  stuffy  in  the  Albion  and  Aunt 
Ellen  had  been  uncomfortable  and  fussed  about  it,  and 
Chrystie  was  disappointed  that  her  favorite  had  not  been 
able  to  make  the  performance  a  success.  As  they  edged 
forward  she  explained  to  Lorry  that  it  wasn't  Pancha's 
fault,  it  was  the  sort  of  thing  she  didn't  do  as  well  as 
other  things  and  she  oughtn't  to  have  been  made  to  do 
it.  Then,  her  eye  ranging,  she  suddenly  stopped  and 
gave  Lorry  a  dig  with  her  elbow. 

"There's  Marquis  de  Lafayette.     Do  you  see  him?" 

Lorry  had,  which  did  not  prevent  her  from  saying  in  a 
languid  voice, 

"Where?" 

"Over  there  by  the  railing.  You  know  he  is  good- 
looking,  Lorry,  when  he's  all  by  himself  that  way,  not 
trying  to  be  worthy  of  a  college  education." 

"Urn,"  said  her  sister.     "It's  fearfully  hot  in  here." 

"I  don't  see  why  we  ever  came,"  Aunt  Ellen  moaned. 

They  were  near  him  now  and  he  saw  them.  For  a 
moment  he  stared,  then  gave  a  nod  and  reddened  to  his 
forehead. 

"Oh,  he's  blushing!"  Chrystie  tittered  as  she  returned 
the  bow.  "How  perfectly  sweet !" 

The  first  sight  of  them  had  given  Mark  a  shock  as 
violent  as  if  he  had  met  them  in  an  exploration  of  the 
South  Pole  or  the  heart  of  a  tropical  forest.  It  took 

116 


Fools  in  Their  Folly 


him  some  minutes  to  recover,  during  which  he  stood 
rooted,  only  his  head  moving  as  he  watched  them  borne 
into  the  foyer,  there  caught  in  merging  side  currents  and 
carried  toward  the  main  entrance.  It  was  not  till  they 
were  almost  at  the  door,  Chrystie's  high  blonde  crest 
glistening  above  lower  and  less  splendid  ones,  that  he 
came  to  life.  He  did  it  suddenly,  with  a  sharp  reaction, 
and  started  in  impetuous  pursuit.  His  first  movement — 
a  spirited  rush — carried  him  into  a  family,  a  compact 
phalanx  moving  solidly  upon  the  exit.  He  ran  into  some- 
one, a  child,  stammered  apologies,  placated  an  irate 
mother,  then  craning  his  neck  for  his  quarry,  saw  the 
high  blonde  head  in  the  distance  against  the  darkness  of 
the  street. 

The  check  was  more  than  physical.  It  caused  a  sud- 
den uprush  of  his  old  timidity  and  he  stood  irresolute,  in 
everybody's  way,  spying  at  the  distant  golden  head.  It 
seemed  as  if  they  had  wanted  to  avoid  him,  they  had 
gone  so  quickly,  just  bowed  and  been  carried  on — if  only 
Chrystie  would  look  back  and  smile.  Standing  on  his 
toes,  jostled  and  elbowed,  he  caught  a  glimpse  of  them, 
all  three,  outside  the  door.  They  appeared  preoccupied, 
the  two  girls  talking  across  Aunt  Ellen,  with  no  back- 
ward glances  for  a  young  man  struggling  to  reach  them 
— anyone  could  have  seen  they  had  forgotten  his  exist- 
ence. With  a  set  face  he  turned  and  made  for  the  side 
exit.  They  had  no  use  for  him;  he  would  go  home  to 
the  place  where  he  belonged. 

The  bitterness  of  this  thought  carried  him  through  the 
side  exit  and  there  left  him.  Whatever  they  felt  and 
however  they  acted,  it  was  his  duty  to  see  them  on  the 
car.  Boor!  clod!  goat!  He  could  still  catch  them  if  he 
went  round  to  the  front,  and  he  started  to  do  it,  facing 
the  emerging  throng,  battling  his  way  through.  That 

117 


Treasure  and  Trouble  Therewith 

was  too  slow;  he  backed  out,  turned  into  the  street  and 
ran,  charging  through  streams  that  had  broken  from 
the  main  torrent  and  were  trickling  away  in  various 
directions.  Rounding  the  corner  he  saw  he  was  not  too 
late.  There,  standing  on  the  curb,  were  Aunt  Ellen  and 
Chrjstie,  conspicuous  in  their  ornamental  clothes,  look- 
ing in  the  opposite  direction  up  the  street's  animated 
vista.  He  followed  their  eyes  and  saw  a  sight  that  made 
him  halt — Lorry,  her  satin-slippered  feet  stepping  deli- 
cately along  the  grimy  pavements,  her  pale  skirts  emerg- 
ing from  the  rich  sheath  of  her  cloak.  Beside  her,  re- 
sponding to  a  beckoning  hand,  a  carriage  rattled  down 
upon  Chrystie  and  Aunt  Ellen.  They  had  a  carriage  and 
she  had  had  to  go  and  find  it ! 

With  a  heart  seared  by  flaming  self-scorn,  Mark 
turned  and  slunk  away.  He  slid  into  the  crowd's  en- 
veloping darkness  as  into  a  friendly  shelter.  He  wanted 
to  hide  from  them,  crawl  off  unseen  like  the  worm  he 
Was.  This  was  the  least  violent  term  he  applied  to  himself 
as  he  walked  home,  cursing  under  his  breath,  wondering 
if  in  the  length  and  breadth  of  the  land  there  lived  a 
greater  fool  than  he.  There  was  a  mitigating  circum- 
stance— he  had  never  dreamed  of  their  having  a  carriage. 
In  his  experience  carriages,  like  clergymen,  were  only 
associated  with  weddings  and  funerals.  He  thought  of 
it  afterward  in  his  room,  but  it  didn't  help  much — in 
fact  it  only  accentuated  the  difference  between  them. 
Girls  who  had  carriages  when  they  went  to  the  Albion 
were  not  the  kind  for  lawyers'  clerks  to  dream  of. 

Inside  the  carriage,  Aunt  Ellen  insisted  on  an  under- 
standing with  the  livery  stable  man: 

"Running  about  in  the  mud  in  the  middle  of  the  night 
— it's  ridiculous!  Lorry,  are  your  slippers  spoiled?" 

"No,  Aunt  Ellen.     There  isn't  any  mud." 

118 


Fools  in  Their  Folly 


"There  might  just  as  well  have  been.  Any  time  in  the 
winter  there's  liable  to  be  mud.  Will  you  see  Crowley 
tomorrow  and  tell  him  we  won't  have  any  more  drivers 
who  go  away  and  hide  in  side  streets?" 

"Yes,  I'll  tell  him,  but  he  wasn't  hiding,  he  was  only 
a  little  way  from  the  entrance." 

"Having  no  man  in  the  family  certainly  Is  incon- 
venient," came  from  Chrystie,  and  then  with  sudden 
recollection:  "What  happened  to  Marquis  de  Lafay- 
ette? Why  didn't  he  come  and  get  it?" 

"I  don't  know,  I'm  sure."  Lorry  was  looking  out  of 
the  window. 

"Well,  I  must  say  if  we  ask  him  to  our  parties  the 
least  he  can  do  is  to  find  our  hacks." 

"I  think  so,  too,"  said  Aunt  Ellen.  "The  young  men 
of  today  seem  to  have  forgotten  their  manners." 

"Forgotten  them!"  echoed  Chrystie.  "You  can't  for- 
get what  you  never  had." 

"Oh,  do  keep  quiet,"  came  unexpectedly  from  Lorry. 
"The  heat  in  that  place  has  given  me  a  headache." 

Then  they  were  contrite,  for  Lorry  almost  never  had 
anything,  and  their  attentions  and  inquiries  had  to  be 
endured  most  of  the  way  home. 

Crowder,  contrary  to  his  expectations,  found  Pancha 
in  high  good  spirits.  When  a  piece  failed  she  was  wont 
to  display  that  exaggerated  discouragement  peculiar  to 
the  artist.  Tonight,  sitting  in  front  of  her  mirror,  she 
was  as  confident  and  smiling  as  she  had  been  in  the  first 
week  of  "The  Zingara." 

"I'm  glad  to  see  you're  taking  it  so  well,"  he  said. 
"It's  pretty  hard  following  on  a  big  success." 

"Oh,  it's  all  in  the  day's  work.  You  can't  hit  the 
bull's  eye  every  time.  The  management  are  going  to  dig 
down  into  their  barrel  next  week,  hunting  for  another 

119 


Treasure  and  Trouble  Therewith 

gypsy  role.  They  want  me  again  in  my  braids  and  my 
spangles.  They  liked  my  red  and  orange — Spanish 
colors  for  the  Spanish  girl." 

She  flashed  her  gleaming  smile  at  him  and  he  thought 
how  remarkably  well  she  was  looking,  getting  handsomer 
every  day.  Her  words  recalled  something  he  had  wanted 
to  ask  her  and  had  forgotten. 

"Talking  of  red  and  orange,  how  about  that  anony- 
mous guy  that  sent  you  the  flowers?  You  remember, 
back  in  the  autumn — a  lot  of  roses  with  a  motto  he  got 
out  of  a  Christmas  cracker?" 

She  had  her  comb  in  her  hand  and  dropped  it,  leaning 
down  to  scratch  round  for  it  on  the  floor. 

"Oh,  him — he's  just  petered  out." 

"Did  you  find  out  who  he  was?" 

Up  to  this  Pancha  had  been  nearly  as  truthful  with 
Crowder  as  she  was  with  her  father.  But  now  a  time 
had  come  when  she  felt  she  must  lie.  That  secret  inti- 
macy, growing  daily  dearer  and  more  dangerous,  could 
not  be  confessed.  Crowder  had  been  mentor  as  well  as 
friend  and  she  feared  not  only  his  curiosity  but  his  dis- 
approval. He  would  argue,  plead,  interfere.  She  dis- 
liked what  she  had  to  say,  and  as  she  righted  herself, 
comb  in  hand,  her  face  was  flushed. 

"Yes,  a  chap  from  the  East.  He  just  admired  from 
afar  and  went  his  way." 

"Oh,  he's  gone."  Crowder  was  satisfied.  "Seen  your 
father  lately?" 

"No,  but  I  had  a  letter  to  say  he'd  be  down  soon." 

The  color  in  her  face  deepened.  She  knew  that  her 
father  would  ask  even  more  searching  questions  than 
Crowder  and  she  was  prepared  to  lie  to  him.  Biting  her 
lip  at  the  thought,  she  looked  down  the  long  spray  of 
lashes  defined  on  her  cheeks.  Crowder  stared  at  her, 

120 


Fools  in  Their  Folly 


impressed  anew  by  that  suggestion  of  radiant  enrich- 
ment in  her  appearance. 

"I  say,  old  girl,"  burst  from  him,  "do  you  know  you're 
looking  something  grand." 

She  raised  her  lids  and  let  her  glance  rest  on  him,  soft 
and  deep.  It  was  a  strange  look  to  come  from  Pancha's 
bold,  defiant  eyes. 

"Am  I?"  she  said  gently.  "I  guess  I'm  happy, that's  all." 

"Well,  it's  powerful  becoming,  believe  me.  And  why 
are  you,  especially  with  'The  Gray  Lady'  a  frost?" 

She  rose,  the  red  kimono  falling  straight  about  her 
lithe,  narrow  shape,  then  stretched,  a  slow  spread  of 
arms,  languid  and  catlike.  Pressing  her  hands  on  her 
eyes  she  said  from  smiling  lips: 

"Oh,  there's  no  particular  reason.  It  just  happens  so. 
I'm  getting  to  feel  sure  of  myself — that's  what,  I  guess. 
Now  run  along,  old  son,  I'm  sleepy.  'The  Gray  Lady' 
does  it  to  me  as  well  as  the  audience.  Good-night." 

Crowder  was  not  the  only  one  who  had  noticed 
Pancha's  improved  looks  and  high  spirits.  Behind  the 
scenes  the  failure  of  "The  Gray  Lady"  had  produced 
dejection  and  rasped  tempers.  She  alone  seemed  to 
escape  the  prevailing  gloom.  She  came  in  at  night  smil- 
ing, left  a  trail  of  notes  behind  her  as  she  walked  to  her 
dressing  room,  and  from  there  clear  scales  and  mellow 
bars  rose  spasmodically  as  she  dressed.  Usually  holding 
herself  aloof,  she  was  friendly,  made  jokes  in  the  wings, 
chatted  with  the  chorus,  and  when  she  left  the  old  door- 
keeper was  warmed  by  her  gay  good-night. 

Her  confreres  were  puzzled;  it  was  quite  a  new  phase. 
They  had  not  liked  Miss  Lopez  at  first ;  she  gave  herself 
airs  and  had  a  bad  temper.  Once  she  had  slapped  a 
chorus  woman  who  had  spoiled  her  exit ;  at  a  rehearsal 
she  had  been  so  rude  to  the  tenor  the  stage  manager  had 


Treasure  and  Trouble  Therewith 

had  to  call  her  down  and  there  had  been  a  fight.  Now 
they  wondered  and  whispered — under  circumstances  con- 
ducive to  ill-humor  she  was  as  sweet  as  honey  dropping 
from  the  comb.  They  set  it  down  to  temperament ;  every- 
body from  the  start  had  seen  she  had  it,  and  anyway 
there  wasn't  anything  else  to  set  it  down  to. 

What  they  saw  was  only  a  gleam,  a  thin  shining 
through  of  the  glory  within.  It  irradiated,  permeated, 
illumined  her,  escaping  in  those  smiles  and  words  and 
snatches  of  song  because  she  could  not  hold  it  in.  As  she 
had  told  Crowder,  she  was  happy,  and  she  had  never  been 
before.  She  came  out  of  sleep  to  the  warming  sense  of 
it.  It  stayed  with  her  all  day,  fed  on  a  note,  a  telephone 
message,  a  gift  of  flowers,  fed  on  nothing  but  her  own 
thoughts. 

It  was  the  happiness  found  in  little  of  one  who  has 
been  starved,  nourished  by  trifles,  tiny  seeds  flowering 
into  growths  that  touched  the  sky.  She  did  not  see 
Mayer  as  often  as  formerly  and  when  she  did  their  talk 
was  on  other  things  than  love.  In  fact  he  was  rather 
shy  of  the  subject,  did  not  repeat  his  kiss,  was  more 
comrade  than  wooer.  But  he  sought  her,  he  had  told 
her  why  and  that  was  enough.  What  he  had  said  she 
believed,  not  alone  because  it  seemed  the  only  reasonable 
explanation  of  his  actions,  but  because  she  wanted  to 
believe  it.  He  had  come,  a  nonchalant  wayfarer,  and 
grown  to  care,  said  at  last  the  words  she  was  longing  to 
hear,  and,  hearing,  she  felt  them  true  and  was  satisfied. 

And  then  she  had  drifted,  content  to  rest  in  the  com- 
plete comfort  of  her  belief.  The  moment  was  enough, 
and  she  stood  on  the  summit  of  each  one,  swaying  in 
blissful  balance.  Vaguely  she  knew  she  was  moving  on 
a  final  moment,  on  a  momentous,  ultimate  decision,  and 
she  neither  cared  nor  questioned.  Like  a  sleepwalker  she 


Fools  in  Their  Folly 


advanced,  inevitably  drawn,  seeing  a  blurred  dazzle  at 
the  path's  end  in  which  she  would  finally  be  absorbed. 

Everything  that  had  made  her  Pancha  Lopez,  familiar 
to  herself,  was  gone.  She  was  somebody  else,  somebody 
filled  with  a  brimming  gladness,  with  no  room  for  any 
other  feeling.  Her  old,  hard  self-sufficiency  seemed  a 
poor,  bleak  thing,  her  high  head  was  lowered  and  gloried 
in  its  abasement.  All  the  fierce,  combative  spirit  of  the 
past  had  vanished ;  even  her  work,  heretofore  her  life,  was 
executed  automatically  and  pushed  aside,  an  obstruction 
between  herself  and  the  sight  and  thought  of  Mayer. 
The  laws  that  had  ruled  her  conduct,  the  pride  that  had 
upheld  her,  melted  like  cobwebs  before  the  sun.  She 
lived  to  please  a  man  she  thought  loved  her  and  that  she 
loved  to  the  point  where  honor  had  become  an  empty  word 
and  self-respect  transformed  to  self-surrender.  Whatever 
he  would  ask  of  her  she  was  ready  to  give.  The  Indian's 
blood  prompted  her  to  the  squaw's  impassioned  submis- 
sion, the  outlaw's  to  a  repudiation  of  the  law  and  the 
law's  restraints. 

Early  in  January  her  father  came  down  and  when  he 
asked  her  about  Mayer  she  lied  as  she  had  to  Crowder. 
She  told  him  she  still  saw  the  man  but  that  his  devotion 
had  lapsed,  giving  evidence  of  a  languishing  interest. 
When  she  saw  her  father's  relief  she  had  qualms,  but  her 
lover's  voice  on  the  phone,  asking  her  to  dine  with  him 
that  night,  dispersed  them.  All  the  lies  in  the  world  then 
didn't  matter  to  Pancha. 

So  she  drifted,  not  caring  whither,  only  caring  that 
she  should  see  Mayer,  listen  to  him,  dwell  on  his  face,  try 
to  catch  his  wish  before  it  was  spoken.  Her  outer  en- 
velope was  the  same,  performed  the  same  tasks,  lived  in 
the  same  routine,  but  a  new  creature,  a  being  of  fire,  dwelt 
within  it. 


CHAPTER  XIV 

THE  NIGHT  RIDER 

FEBRUARY  had  been  a  month!  of  tremendous 
rains.  Days  of  downpour  were  succeeded  by 
days  of  leaden  skies  and  damp,  brooding  warmth, 
and  then  the  clouds  opened  again  and  the  downpour  was 
renewed.  Along  the  Mother  Lode  the  rivers  ran  bank- 
high  and  the  camps  sat  in  lagoons,  the  sound  of  running 
water  rising  from  the  old  flumes  and  ditches.  Down 
every  gully  that  cut  the  foothills  came  streams,  loud- 
voiced  and  full  of  haste  as  they  rushed  under  the  wooden 
bridges. 

It  was  a  night  toward  the  end  of  the  month,  no  rain 
falling  now,  but  the  sky  sagging  low  with  a  weight  of 
cloud.  An  eye  trained  to  such  obscurity  could  have  made 
out  the  landscape  in  looming  degrees  of  darkness,  masses 
rising  against  levels,  the  fields  a  shade  lighter  than  the 
trees.  These  were  discernible  as  huddlings  and  blots  and 
caverned  blacknesses  into  which  the  road  dove  and  was 
lost.  To  the  left  the  chaparral  rose  from  the  trail's 
edge  in  dense  solidity,  exhaling  rich  earth  scents  and  the 
aromatic  breath  of  pine  and  bay.  The  roadbed  was 
torn  to  pieces,  ruts  knee-high;  the  stones,  washed  loose 
of  soil,  ringing  to  the  blow  of  a  moving  hoof. 

A  rider,  advancing  slowly,  had  noticed  this  and  with  a 
"jerk  of  his  rein,  directed  his  horse  to  the  oozy  grass  along 
the  side.  Here,  noiseless,  man  and  beast  passed,  a  mov- 
ing blackness  against  stationary  black,  leaves  and 
branches  brushing  against  them.  Neither  heeded  this ; 


The  Night  Rider 


both  were  used  to  rough  ways  and  night  traveling  and 
to  each  every  foot  of  the  road  was  familiar. 

Under  a  roof  of  matted  branches  they  drew  up;  the 
horse,  the  reins  loose,  stretched  its  neck,  blowing  softly 
from  widened  nostrils.  The  man  took  a  match  box  from 
his  pocket,  struck  a  light  and  looked  at  his  watch — it 
was  close  on  ten.  The  flame,  breaking  out  in  a  red  spurt, 
gilded  the  limbs  of  the  overarching  trees,  the  glistening 
leaves,  the  horse's  glossy  neck  and  the  man's  face.  It 
glowed  beneath  the  brim  of  his  hat  like  a  portrait  ex- 
ecuted on  a  background  of  velvet  varnished  by  the 
match's  gleam — it  was  the  face  of  Garland  the  outlaw. 

His  hand  again  on  the  rein  sent  its  message  and  the 
horse  padded  softly  on  through  the  arch  of  trees  to  the 
open  road.  Had  it  been  brighter  Garland  could  have 
seen  to  the  right  rolling  country,  fields  sprinkled  with 
oak  domes,  falling  away  to  the  valley,  to  the  left  the 
chaparral's  smothering  thickness.  Between  them  the 
road  passed,  a  pale  skein  across  the  backs  of  the  foot- 
hills, connecting  camps  and  little  towns.  Farther  on  the 
Stanislaus  River,  rushing  down  from  the  Sierra,  would 
crook  its  current,  to  run,  swift  and  turbulent,  beyond, 
the  screen  of  alders  and  willows. 

The  road  ascended,  and  on  a  hillcrest  he  again  halteoT 
and  looked  back,  listening.  Unimpeded  by  trees,  the 
thick  air  holding  all  sound  close  to  the  earth,  he  could 
hear  far-distant  noises.  The  bark  of  a  dog  came  clear — 
that  was  from  Alec  Porter's  ranch  on  the  slopes  toward 
the  valley.  Facing  ahead  he  caught,  faint  and  thin,  the 
roar  of  the  Crystal  Star's  stamp  mill.  Over  to  the  right 
— the  road  would  loop  down  toward  it  at  the  next  turn- 
ing— was  Columbus,  gutted  and  dying  slowly  among  its 
abandoned  diggings. 

He  avoided  this  turn,  taking  a  branch  trail  that  slanted 

125 


Treasure  and  Trouble  Therewith 

through  the  thicket,  wet  leaves  slapping  against  him,  the 
horse's  hoofs  sucking  into  the  spongy  turf.  It  was  still 
and  dark,  the  air  drenched  with  the  odors  of  mossed 
roots  and  pungent  leaves.  When  he  emerged,  the  lights 
of  Columbus  shone  below,  a  small  sprinkling  of  yellow 
dots  gathered  about  the  central  brightness  of  the  Mag- 
nolia Saloon.  The  night  was  so  still  he  could  hear  the 
voices  of  roysterers  straggling  home. 

Presently  the  rushing  weight  of  the  Stanislaus  River 
swept  along  the  nearby  bank.  He  could  hear  the  rustle 
of  its  current,  the  wash  of  its  waves  sucking  and  nosing 
on  the  stones ;  feel  the  breath  of  its  swollen  tide  chilled 
by  mountain  snows.  It  was  up  to  the  alder  bushes,  nearly 
flood  high,  cutting  him  off  from  a  detour  he  had  hoped 
to  make — he  would  have  to  ride  through  San  Marco.  He 
put  a  spur  to  his  horse  and  took  it  boldly,  hoping  the 
mud  would  dull  the  sound  of  his  passage.  The  cabins 
and  shacks  that  fringed  the  town  were  dark  but  in  the 
main  street  there  were  lights,  from  the  ground  floor  of 
the  Mountain  Hotel  where  he  caught  a  glimpse  of  shirt- 
sleeved  men  playing  cards,  from  the  Pioneer  Saloon, 
whence  the  jingling  notes  of  a  piano  issued.  There  was 
less  mud  than  he  had  expected  and  the  thud  of  his  flying 
hoofs  was  flung  from  wall  to  wall  and  called  out  a  burst 
of  barking  dogs,  and  a  startled  face  behind  a  drawn 
curtain  in  a  red-lit  cabin  window. 

Then  away  into  the  darkness — round  Chinese  Cross- 
ing, under  the  eaves  of  the  spreading  plant  of  the  North- 
ern Light,  up  a  hill  and  down  on  the  other  side  through 
a  tunnel  of  trees  to  the  Stanislaus  Ferry.  As  he  passed 
into  their  hollow  he  could  hear  the  thunder  of  the  Lizzie 
J's  stamps  across  the  river,  beating  gigantic  on  the 
silence,  shaking  the  night. 

The   stream   showed   a   flat   space  between  bulwarked 

126 


The  Night  Rider 


hills,  one  yellow  spot — the  light  in  the  ferryman's  win- 
dow— shining  like  an  eye  unwinking  and  vigilant.  Gar- 
land's hail  was  answered  from  within  the  shack,  and  the 
ferryman  came  out,  a  dog  at  his  heels,  a  lantern  in  his 
hand.  There  was  a  short  conference,  and  the  lantern, 
throwing  golden  gleams  on  the  ground,  swung  toward 
the  flat  boat,  the  horse  following,  his  steps,  precise  and 
careful,  ringing  hollow  on  the  wooden  boards. 

They  slid  out  into  the  current,  the  boat  vibrating  to 
the  buffets  of  little  waves,  the  dog  running  from  side  to 
side,  barking  excitedly.  The  ferryman,  the  lantern  lifted, 
took  a  look  at  his  passenger. 

"Mighty  wet  weather  we're  having,"  he  said. 

"Terrible.     Don't  ever  remember  it  worse." 

The  light  of  the  lantern  fell  on  the  horse's  mud-caked 
legs. 

"Looks  as  if  you'd  rid  quite  a  ways." 

"From  this  side  of  Jackson." 

"That's  some  ride.     Guess  y'ain't  met  many  folks." 

"Not  many.  Staying  indoors  this  weather,  all  that 
can." 

"Belong  round  here?" 

"No — back  up  toward  the  Feather." 

They  were  in  midstream,  the  scow  advancing  with  a 
tremulous  motion,  spray  springing  across  its  low  edges 
and  showering  the  men.  The  dog,  who  had  come  to  a 
standstill,  his  forepaws  on  the  gunnel,  his  face  toward 
Garland,  suddenly  broke  into  a  furious  barking. 

Garland  shifted  in  his  saddle. 

"What's  got  your  dog?"  he  said  gruffly.  "He  ain't 
afraid,  is  he?" 

"Afraid?  Don't  know  the  meanin'  of  the  word.  Don't 
mind  him — it's  his  way ;  lived  so  long  with  me  he  acts  sort 
of  notional.  Some  days  he'll  bark  like  now  at  a  passen- 

127 


Treasure  and  Trouble  Therewith 

ger  and  then  again  he  won't  take  no  notice.  Just  some- 
thin'  about  you,  can't  tell  what,  but  he  scents  somethin' 
that  makes  him  act  unfriendly." 

"What  do  you  suppose  it  is?"  growled  the  other. 

The  ferryman  laughed. 

"Oh,  you  can't  ever  tell  about  them  animals — they  got 
a  thinkin'  outfit  of  their  own.  Goin'  far?" 

"To  Angels." 

"Well,  hope  you'll  get  there  all  right.  Sort  of  black 
weather  to  be  travelin',  specially  if  you  got  money  on 
you.  Knapp  and  Garland's  bound  to  get  busy  soon." 

It  was  the  passenger's  turn  to  laugh. 

"I'm  not  the  sort  they're  after.  It's  big  business  for 
them.  Ever  seen  'em?" 

"Search  me.  I  guess  mebbe  I've  taken  'em  acrost,  but 
how  was  I  to  know?" 

The  scow  bumped  against  its  landing  and  man  and 
horse  embarked.  There  was  an  interchange  of  rough 
good-nights,  interrupted  by  the  dog's  frenzied  barking. 
As  the  boat  pulled  out  into  the  stream,  the  ferryman 
called  back  above  the  noise  of  the  water: 

"Looks  like  he  had  somethin'  on  you.  I  ain't  ever 
seen  him  act  so  ugly  before."  Then  to  the  dog,  "Quit 
that,  Tim,  or  I'll  bust  your  jaw." 

Garland  mounted  the  slope.  The  sound  of  the  river 
behind  him  was  drowned  by  the  roar  of  the  Lizzie  J's 
mill.  Its  rampart-like  wall  towered  above  him,  cut  by 
the  orange  squares  of  windows,  the  thunder  of  its  stamps, 
a  giant's  feet  crushing  out  the  gold,  pounding  tremen- 
dous on  the  nocturnal  solitude.  As  the  horse  snorted 
upward,  digging  its  hoofs  among  the  loosened  stones,  he 
looked  up  at  it.  Millions  had  been  made  there;  millions 
were  still  making.  Men  in  distant  cities  were  being  en- 
riched by  the  golden  grains  beaten  free  by  those  giant 

128 


The  Night  Rider 


feet.     Once  he  had  thought  that  he,  too,  might  ravish  the 
earth's  treasure,  become  as  they  were  by  honest  labor. 

An  unexpected  surge  of  depression  suddenly  rose  upon 
him.  He  set  it  down  to  the  barking  of  the  dog,  for,  after 
the  manner  of  those  who  lead  the  lonely  lives  of  the 
outlawed,  he  was  superstitious.  He  believed  in  signs  and 
portents,  lucky  streaks,  the  superior  instinct  of  animals, 
and  as  he  rode  he  brooded  uneasily.  Did  it  simply  mean 
menace,  or  had  the  brute  known  him  for  what  he  was  and 
tried  to  warn  his  master? 

He  muttered  an  oath  and  told  himself,  as  he  had  done 
often  of  late,  that  he  was  growing  old.  Time  and  dis- 
appointment were  wearing  on  the  nerve  that  had  once 
been  unbreakable.  In  the  past  he  had  seen  his  path  going 
unimpeded  to  its  goal;  now  he  recognized  the  possibility 
of  failure,  saw  obstructions,  crept  cautious  where  he  had 
formerly  strode  undismayed,  hesitated  where  he  had  once 
leaped.  He  jerked  himself  upright  and  expelled  his 
breath  in  an  angry  snort.  This  was  no  time  for  such 
musings.  At  Sheeps  Bar,  ten  miles  farther  on,  he  was 
to  meet  Knapp  and  plan  for  the  holdup  of  the  stage  that 
tomorrow  night  would  carry  treasure  to  the  Cimarroon 
Mine  at  North  Fork. 

It  was  after  midnight  when  the  few  faint  lights  of 
Sheeps  Bar  came  into  view.  The  place  was  small,  a 
main  street  flanked  by  frame  houses,  a  wooden  arcade 
jutting  over  the  sagging  sidewalk.  Sleep  held  it;  blank 
windowpanes  looked  over  the  arcade's  roof,  the  one  bright 
spot  the  oblong  of  light  that  shone  from  the  transom  over 
the  door  of  the  Planters  Hotel.  Mindful  of  dogs  he  kept 
to  the  soft  earth  near  the  sidewalk,  shooting  glances  left 
and  right.  But  Sheeps  Bar  was  dead;  there  was  not  a 
stir  of  life  as  he  passed,  not  the  click  of  a  latch,  not  a 
face  at  door  or  window. 

129 


Treasure  and  Trouble  Therewith 

Beyond  the  arcade  the  town  broke  into  a  scattering  of 
detached  houses.  The  last  of  these,  a  one-story  cabin 
staggering  to  its  fall  on  the  edge  of  a  stream,  sent  forth 
a  pale  ray  from  a  wide,  uncurtained  window.  Across  the 
pane,  painted  in  blue,  were  the  words  "Hop  Sing,  Chinese 
Restaurant,"  and  within  the  light  of  a  kerosene  lamp 
showed  a  bare  whitewashed  room  set  forth  in  tables  and 
having  at  one  end  a  small  counter  and  cash  register.  On 
the  window  ledge  stood  a  platter  of  tomales  and  a  pile 
of  oranges. 

Garland  drew  up,  listened,  then  dropped  off  his  horse 
and  led  it  toward  the  hovel.  Before  he  reached  it  a  side 
door  opened  and  a  head  was  thrust  out.  A  whispered 
hail  passed  and  the  owner  of  the  head  emerged — a  China- 
man, shadow-thin  and  shadow-noiseless.  He  slipped 
through  the  wet  grass  and  with  an  "All  'ighty,  boss," 
that  might  have  been  a  murmur  of  the  stirred  leaves,  took 
the  horse  and  disappeared  with  it  toward  a  rear  shed. 

Garland  went  to  the  cabin.  The  room  which  he 
entered  opened  into  the  restaurant  and  was  the  China- 
man's den.  Its  only  furniture  was  a  bunk  with  a  coil  of 
dirty  blankets,  a  chair  and  table,  on  which  stood  an  add- 
ing machine,  the  balls  running  on  wires.  Near  it  was 
the  ink  well  and  bamboo  pen  and  small  squares  of  paper 
covered  with  Chinese  characters.  One  door  led  into  the 
restaurant  and  another  into  the  kitchen.  In  this  room, 
lit  by  a  wall  lamp,  its  window  giving  on  a  tangled  growth 
of  shrubs,  sat  Knapp  sprawled  before  the  stove. 

Their  greetings  were  brief,  and  drawing  up  to  the  table 
they  began  the  plans  for  the  next  night's  work.  Through 
the  window  the  air  came  cool  and  moist,  fighting  with  the 
odors  of  cooking  and  the  rank,  stifling  Chinese  smell.  On 
the  silence  without  rose  the  horses'  soft  whinnyings  to 
one  another  and  then  the  Chinaman's  returning  passage 

130 


The  Night  Rider 


through  the  grass  and  the  rasp  of  the  closing  door.  He 
put  a  bottle  and  glasses  before  the  men,  slipped  speech- 
less into  the  restaurant,  and  returned,  an  animated 
shadow,  with  the  lamp  in  his  hand.  This  he  set  on  the 
table  in  his  own  room,  and  sitting  before  it,  began  moving 
the  balls  in  the  adding  machine.  Upon  the  low  voices  in 
the  kitchen,  the  dry  click  of  the  shifted  balls  broke  in 
sharp  staccato,  followed  by  pauses  when,  with  a  hand  as 
delicate  as  a  woman's,  he  traced  the  Chinese  characters 
on  the  paper. 

It  was  he  who  heard  first.  His  hand,  raised  to  move 
a  line  of  the  balls,  hung  suspended,  his  eyes  riveted  in  an 
agate-bright  stare  on  the  wall  opposite.  He  half  rose; 
his  meager  body  stiffened  as  if  the  muscles  had  suddenly 
become  steel ;  his  face  turned  in  wild  question  to  the  room 
beyond.  He  was  up  and  had  hissed  a  terrified,  "Look 
out,  boss,  someone  come !"  when  a  rending  blow  fell  on  the 
door. 

For  a  breath  there  was  stillness,  then  pandemonium — 
a  sudden  burst  of  action  following  on  a  moment  of 
paralysis,  an  explosion  of  sound  and  movement.  It  all 
came  together — the  breaking  in  of  the  door,  the  rat-like 
rush  of  the  men,  the  crash  of  falling  furniture,  of  shivered 
glass,  of  dark,  scrambling  figures,  and  the  blinding  flash 
of  a  revolver.  The  Chinaman's  face,  ape-like  in  its  terror, 
showed  above  the  blankets  of  his  bunk,  Knapp  lay  on  the 
ground  caught  by  the  falling  table,  and  in  the  window 
jagged  edges  of  glass  and  a  trail  of  blood  on  the  sill 
showed  the  way  Garland  had  gone.  In  the  doorway  the 
sheriff  stood  with  his  leveled  revolver,  while  the  voices 
and  trampling  of  men  came  from  the  shrubs  outside. 


CHAPTER  XV, 

THE  LAST  DINNER 

IT  was  depressing  weather,  rain,  rain,  and  then  again 
rain.  For  two  weeks  now,  off  and  on,  people  had 
looked  out  through  windows  lashed  with  fine  spears 
or  glazed  with  watery  skins  which  endlessly  slipped  down 
the  pane.  Muddy  pools  collected  and  spread  across  the 
street,  the  cars  that  drove  through  them  sending  the 
water  in  fan-like  spurts  from  their  wheels.  Down  the 
high,  cobbled  hills  rivulets  felt  their  way  and  grass 
sprouted  between  the  granite  blocks.  A  gray  wall  shut 
in  the  city,  which  showed  dimly  under  the  downpour, 
gardens  blossoming,  roof  shining  beyond  roof,  wet  wall 
dripping  on  wet  wall. 

From  his  parlor  window  in  the  Argonaut  Hotel,  Boye 
Mayer  looked  down  on  the  street's  swimming  length,  and 
then  up  at  the  sky's  leaden  pall.  It  was  not  raining  now 
but  there  was  no  knowing  when  it  might  begin  again. 
He  yawned  and  stretched,  then  looked  at  his  watch — half- 
past  four.  What  should  he  do  for  the  rest  of  the  after- 
noon? 

Several  times  during  the  last  month  this  problem  of 
time  to  be  passed  had  presented  itself.  The  rain  had  cut 
him  off  from  stately  promenades  on  the  sunny  side  of  the 
street  and  the  diversions  of  San  Francisco  had  grown 
stale  from  familiarity.  The  bloom  of  his  adventure  was 
tarnished ;  he  was  becoming  used  to  riches,  and  comfort 
had  lost  its  first,  fine,  careless  rapture.  It  was  not  that 
he  was  actually  bored,  but  he  saw,  as  things  were  going, 


The  Last  Dinner 


he  might  eventually  become  so,  especially  if  the  rain 
continued.  So  far,  the  green  tables  and  Pancha  had 
held  off  this  undesired  state,  but  like  all  attractive 
pastimes  both  had  their  dangers.  His  luck  at  the  green 
tables  had  been  so  bad  that  he  had  resolved  to  give  them 
up,  and  that  made  the  menace  of  boredom  loom  larger. 
Life  in  San  Francisco  in  the  height  of  the  wet  season, 
with  cards  denied  him  and  Pancha  only  to  be  visited  occa- 
sionally, was  not  what  it  had  promised  to  be. 

He  had  thought  of  leaving,  going  to  the  South,  and 
then  decided  against  it.  There  were  several  reasons  why 
it  was  better  for  him  to  stay.  One  was  the  money  in 
Sacramento.  This  had  become  an  intruding  matter  of 
worry  and  indecision.  It  was  not  only  that  the  store 
was  so  greatly  diminished — his  losses  had  made  astonish- 
ing inroads  in  it — but  he  feared  its  discovery  and  he 
hated  his  trips  there.  He  always  spent  a  night  in  the 
place,  on  a  stone-hard  bed  in  a  dirty,  unaired  room,  and 
in  his  shabby  clothes  was  forced  to  patronize  cheap  eat- 
ing houses  where  the  fare  sickened  him.  He  managed  it 
very  adroitly,  carrying  in  his  old  suitcase  the  hat,  coat, 
shoes  and  tie  he  had  bought  in  Sacramento,  changing 
into  them  in  the  men's  washroom  in  the  Sacramento  depot, 
and  emerging  therefrom  the  Harry  Romaine  who  rented 
room  19  in  the  What  cheer  House. 

Of  course  there  was  danger  of  detection,  and  faced  by 
this  and  the  memory  of  his  discomfort  on  the  train  down, 
he  told  himself  he  would  certainly  move  the  money.  But 
back  in  the  Argonaut  Hotel  his  resolution  weakened. 
Where  would  he  move  it  to?  He  could  bank  it  in  San 
Francisco,  but  here  again  there  were  perils,  of  a  kind  he 
dreaded  even  more  than  the  Sacramento  trips.  There 
was  that  question  of  references,  and  he  feared  the  eyes 
of  men,  honest  men,  business  men.  He  kept  away  from 

133 


Treasure  and  Trouble  Therewith 

them;  they  were  shrewd,  bitterly  hostile  to  such  as  he. 
So  he  invariably  slipped  back  into  a  state  where  he  said 
he  must  do  something,  waited  until  he  had  only  a  few 
dollars  left,  then,  cursing  and  groaning,  pulled  the  old 
clothes  out  of  his  trunk,  packed  his  battered  suitcase  and 
told  Ned  Murphy  he  was  going  into  the  interior  "on 
business." 

But  outside  all  these  lesser  boredoms  and  anxieties 
there  was  another  bigger  than  all  the  rest  and  growing 
every  day:  After  the  money  was  gone,  what? 

It  was  a  question  that,  in  the  past,  he  would  have 
sheered  away  from  as  a  horse  shies  from  an  obstacle 
intruding  on  a  pleasant  road.  But  time  had  taught  him 
many  things — the  picaroon  was  becoming  far-righted; 
the  grasshopper  had  learned  of  the  ant.  The  spring  of 
his  youth  was  gone ;  the  renewal  of  the  old  struggle  too 
horrible  to  contemplate.  And  he  would  have  to  contem- 
plate it  or  decide  on  something  to  forestall  it.  That  was 
what  he  had  been  thinking  about  for  the  past  week,  shut 
up  in  his  hotel  room,  his  hands  deep  in  his  pockets,  his 
eyes  morosely  fixed  on  space. 

At  the  Alston  dinner  an  idea  had  germinated  in  his 
mind.  It  was  only  a  seed  at  first,  then  it  began  to  grow 
and  had  now  assumed  a  definite  shape.  At  first  he  had 
toyed  with  it,  viewed  it  from  different  angles  as  some- 
thing fantastic  and  irrelevant,  but  nevertheless  having  a 
piquancy  of  its  own.  Then  his  ill-luck  and  that  necessary 
facing  of  the  situation  made  him  regard  it  more  closely, 
compelled  him  to  award  it  a  serious  consideration.  He 
did  not  like  it ;  it  had  almost  no  point  of  appeal ;  it  was 
not  the  sort  of  thing,  had  chance  been  kinder,  he  would 
ever  have  contemplated.  But  it  was  inescapable,  the 
angel  with  the  flaming  sword  planted  in  his  path. 

Reluctant,  with  dragging  feet,  he  had  gone  to  call  on 


The  Last  Dinner 


the  Alston  girls.  There  had  been  several  visits  before 
that  in  return  for  continued  hospitalities ;  but  this  was 
the  first  of  what  might  be  called  a  second  series,  the  first 
after  the  acceptance  of  his  idea.  It  had  driven  him  ta 
it,  hounded  him  on  like  Orestes  hounded  by  the  furies. 
When  he  got  there  he  saw  behind  the  hounding  the  hand 
of  fate,  for  instead  of  finding  both  sisters  at  home  or 
both  sisters  out,  he  found  Chrystie  in  and  alone.  She 
had  talked  bashfully,  a  shy-eyed  novice  with  blush-rose 
cheeks  and  fingers  feeling  cold  in  the  pressure  of  fare- 
well. The  hand  of  fate  pointed  to  her.  If  it  had  been 
the  other  sister  the  hand  would  have  pointed  in  vain. 
From  the  start  he  had  felt  the  fundamental  thing  in 
Lorry — character,  brain,  vision,  whatever  you  like  to  call 
it — upon  which  his  flatteries  and  blandishments  would 
have  been  fruitless,  arrows  falling  blunted  against  a  glit- 
tering armor.  But  this  child,  this  blushing,  perturbed, 
unformed  creature,  as  soft  and  fiberless  as  a  skein  of  her 
own  hair,  was  fruit  for  his  plucking. 

That  was  his  idea. 

He  had  brooded  on  it  all  the  week,  hearing  the  rain 
drumming  on  the  roof  outside,  smoking  countless  cig- 
arettes, harassed,  balky  and  beaten.  He  thought  of  it 
now,  his  hands  deep  in  his  pockets,  his  chest  hollowed, 
his  sullen  eyes  surveying  the  hill  opposite,  up  which  a 
cable  car  crawled  like  a  large  wet  beetle.  He  watched 
the  car  till  it  dipped  over  the  summit  and  there  was 
nothing  to  see  but  the  two  shining  rails,  and  the  glisten- 
ing roofs  and  the  shrouded  distance.  It  was  like  his. 
idea,  inexpressibly  dreary,  a  forlorn,  monotonous,  gray 
shutting  out  what  once  had  been  a  bright,  engaging 
prospect. 

He  looked  again  at  his  watch — not  yet  half  past  five — 
at  least  an  hour  to  pass  before  dinner.  The  green  tables. 

135 


Treasure  and  Trouble  Therewith 

began  to  call,  and  he  turned  from  the  window  to  the  dusk 
of  the  room,  tempted  and  restless.  He  must  do  something 
or  he  would  answer  the  call,  and  he  searched  his  resources 
for  a  diversion  at  once  enlivening  and  inexpensive.  The 
search  brought  up  on  Pancha.  She  and  her  mysteries 
were  always  amusing;  her  love  flattered  him;  blues  and 
boredom  died  in  her  presence.  Dangerous  she  could  be, 
but  dangerous  he  would  not  let  her  be — his  was  the  master 
mind,  cold,  self-governing,  and  self-sure.  One  more  swing 
around  the  circle  with  Pancha  and  then  good-by.  Soon 
he  "would  give  his  bridle  rein  a  shake  beside  the  river 
shore."  At  that  he  laughed — "river  shore"  aptly  de- 
scribed San  Francisco  under  present  conditions — and 
laughing  went  to  the  telephone  and  called  her  up.  He 
caught  her  at  rehearsal  and  made  a  rendezvous  for  din- 
ner in  the  banquet  room  at  Solari's. 

Solan's  was  a  small  Italian  restaurant  in  the  business 
quarter  which  had  gained  fame  by  the  patronage  of  the 
local  illuminati  known  to  press  and  public  as  "Bo- 
hemians." They  foregathered  nightly  there,  the  plate 
glass  window  giving  a  view  of  them,  conspicuously  herded 
at  a  large  central  table,  to  interested  passersby.  To  the 
right  of  the  window  was  a  door,  giving  on  a  narrow  stair- 
case which  led  up  to  the  second  floor  and  what  Solari 
called  his  "banquet  room."  Here  on  state  occasions  the 
Bohemians  entertained  celebrities,  secretly  fretted  by  the 
absence  of  their  accustomed  audience.  They  had  deco- 
rated the  walls  with  samples  of  their  art,  and  when  East- 
ern visitors  came  to  Solari's,  they  were  always  taken  up 
there,  and  expected  to  say  that  San  Francisco  reminded 
them  of  Paris.  Mayer  liked  the  place  and  had  dined  there 
several  times  with  Pancha,  always  in  the  banquet  room. 
There  were  newspaper  men  among  the  Bohemians  who 
would  have  found  material  in  the  simultaneous  appear- 

136 


The  Last  Dinner 


ance  of  the  picturesque  Mr.  Mayer  and  the  Albion's  star. 

He  had  ordered  the  dinner,  had  the  fire  lighted  and  the 
table  spread  when  she  came.  She  had  run  up  the  stairs 
and  was  out  of  breath,  bringing  in  a  whiff  of  the  night's 
fresh  dampness,  and  childishly  glad  to  be  there.  She 
made  no  attempt  to  hide  it,  laughing  as  she  slid  out  of  her 
coat  and  tossed  her  hat  on  a  chair.  With  her  feet  in  their 
worn,  high-heeled  shoes  held  out  to  the  fire,  her  hands 
rosily  transparent  against  the  blaze,  she  filled  the  room 
with  a  new  magic  and  charm,  sent  waves  of  well-being 
through  it.  They  warmed  and  lifted  Mayer  from  his  wor- 
ries, and  he  was  nearly  as  glad  that  he  had  asked  her  to 
come  as  she  was  to  obey  his  summons.  In  his  relief  that 
she  was  able  to  dissipate  his  gloom,  he  forgot  his  caution 
and  laughed  with  her,  the  laugh  of  the  lover  rejoicing  in 
the  sight  of  his  lady. 

The  dinner  was  good  and  they  were  merry  over  it.  Un- 
der the  shaded  light  above  the  table  he  could  see  her  color 
fluctuate  and  the  quick  droop  of  her  eyes  as  they  met  his, 
and  these  evidences  of  his  power  added  to  his  enjoyment. 
The  inhibition  he  had  put  upon  himself  was  for  the  time 
lifted,  and  he  spoke  softly,  caressingly,  words  that  made 
the  rose  in  her  cheeks  burn  deeper  and  her  voice  tremble 
in  its  low  response.  Always  keener  in  his  chase  of  money 
than  of  women,  his  cold  blood  was  warmed  and  he  per- 
mitted himself  to  grow  tender,  safe  in  the  thought  that 
this  would  be  their  last  dinner. 

At  seven  she  had  to  go,  frankly  reluctant,  making  no 
pretense  to  hide  her  disinclination.  She  rose  and  went  to 
where  her  coat  lay  over  a  chair,  but  he  was  before  her, 
and  snatching  it  up  held  it  spread  for  her  enveloping. 
With  her  arms  outstretched  she  slid  into  it,  then  felt  him 
suddenly  clasp  her.  Weakened,  like  a  body  from  which 
the  strength  has  fled,  she  drooped  against  him,  her  head 

137 


Treasure  and  Trouble  Therewith 

fallen  back  on  his  shoulder.  He  leaned  his  cheek  against 
hers,  rubbing  it  softly,  then  bending  lower  till  he  found 
her  lips. 

Out  of  his  arms  she  steadied  herself  with  a  hand  on 
the  mantelpiece,  the  room  blurred,  no  breath  left  her  for 
speech.  For  a  moment  the  place  was  noiseless  save  for 
the  small,  friendly  sounds  of  the  fire.  Then  she  asked  the 
woman's  eternal  question, 

"Do  you  love  me?" 

"What  do  you  think?"  he  said,  surprised  to  hear  his 
voice  shaken  and  husky. 

"Oh,  Boye,"  she  cried  and  turned  on  him,  clasping  her 
hands  against  her  heart,  a  figure  of  tragic  intensity,  "is 
it  true  ?  Do  you  mean  it  ?" 

He  nodded,  silent  because  he  was  not  sure  of  what  to 
say. 

"It's  not  a  lie?  It's  not  just  to  get  me  because  I'm 
Pancha  Lopez  who's  never  had  a  lover?" 

"My  dear  girl!"  he  gave  his  foreign  shrug.  "Why  all 
this  unbelief?" 

"Because  it's  natural,  because  I  can't  help  it.  I  want 
to  trust,  I  want  to  believe — but  I'm  afraid,  I'm  afraid  of 
being  hurt."  She  raised  her  clasped  hands  and  covered 
her  face  with  them.  From  behind  their  shield  her  voice 
came  muffled  and  broken,  "I  couldn't  stand  that.  I've 
never  cared  before,  I  never  thought  I  would — anyway  not 
like  this.  It's  come  and  got  me — it's  got  me  down  to  the 
depths  of  my  heart." 

"Why,  Pancha,"  he  said,  exceedingly  uneasy,  sorry  now 
he'd  asked  her,  sorry  he'd  come.  "What's  the  sense  of 
talking  that  way — don't  be  so  tragic.  This  isn't  the  stage 
of  the  Albion." 

"No,  it's  not."  She  dropped  her  hands  and  faced  him. 
"It's  real  life — it's  my  real  life.  It's  the  first  I've  ever 

138 


The  Last  Dinner 


had."  And  suddenly  she  went  to  him,  caught  his  arm,  and 
pressing1  against  it  looked  with  impassioned  eyes  into  his. 
"Do  you  love  me — not  just  to  flirt  and  pay  compliments, 
but  truly — to  want  me  more  than  any  woman  in  the 
world?  Tell  me  the  truth." 

Her  eyes  held  his,  against  his  arm  he  could  feel  the 
beating  of  her  heart.  Just  at  that  moment  the  truth  was 
the  last  thing  he  could  tell. 

"Little  fool,"  he  said  softly,  "I  love  you  more  than  you 
deserve." 

Her  breath  came  with  a  sob ;  she  drooped  her  head  and, 
resting  her  face  against  his  shoulder,  was  still. 

Over  her  head  he  looked  at  the  fire,  with  his  free  hand 
gently  caressing  her  arm.  He  did  not  want  to  say  any 
more.  What  he  wanted  was  to  get  away,  slide  out  of 
range  of  her  eyes  and  her  questions.  It  was  his  own  fault 
that  the  interview  had  developed  in  a  manner  undesired 
and  unintended,  but  that  did  not  make  him  any  the  less 
anxious  to  end  it.  Presently  she  lifted  her  head  and  drew 
back  from  him.  Stealing  a  look  at  her,  he  saw  she  was 
pale  and  that  her  eyes  were  wet.  She  put  her  fingers  on 
them,  pressing  on  the  lids,  her  lips  set  close,  her  breast 
shaken. 

In  dread  of  another  emotional  outburst  he  looked  at 
his  watch  and  said  in  a  brisk,  matter-of-fact  tone, 

"Look  here,  young  woman,  this  is  awfully  jolly,  but  I 
don't  want  to  be  the  means  of  making  trouble  for  you  at 
the  Albion.  Won't  you  be  late?" 

She  started  and  came  to  life,  throwing  a  bewildered 
glance  about  her  for  her  hat. 

"Yes,  I'd  forgotten.  I  must  hurry.  It  takes  me  an 
hour  to  make  up." 

Immensely  relieved,  he  handed  her  the  hat,  saw  her  put 
it  on  with  indifferent  pulls  and  pats,  and  followed  her  to 

139 


Treasure  and  Trouble  Therewith 

the  door.  At  the  top  of  the  stairs  he  pushed  by  her  with  a 
laughing, 

"Here,  let  me  go  first.    It's  my  job  to  lead." 

She  drew  aside,  and  as  he  passed  her  he  caught  her  eyes, 
lighted  with  a  soul-deep  tenderness,  the  woman's  look  of 
surrender.  Then  as  he  descended  a  step  below  her,  she 
leaned  down  and  brushed  her  cheek  along  his  shoulder,  a 
touch  light  as  the  passage  of  a  bird's  wing. 

"It's  my  job  to  follow  where  you  lead,"  she  whispered. 

They  went  down  the  narrow  staircase  crowded  close  to- 
gether, arm  against  arm,  silent.  In  the  doorway  she 
turned  to  him. 

"Don't  come  with  me.  I  want  to  be  alone.  I  want  to 
understand  what's  happened  to  me.  You  can  think  of  me 
going  through  the  streets  and  saying  over  and  over,  'I'm 

happy,  I'm  happy,  I'm  happy '  And  you  can  think 

it's  because  of  you  I'm  saying  it." 

She  was  gone,  a  small,  dark  figure,  flitting  away  against 
the  glistening  splotches  of  light  that  broke  on  the  street's 
wet  vista. 

Not  knowing  what  else  to  do,  Mayer  walked  home.  He 
was  angry  with  everything — with  Pancha,  with  himself, 
with  life.  He  thought  of  her  without  pity,  savage  toward 
her  because  he  had  to  put  her  away  from  him.  Joy  came 
to  him  with  outstretched  hands,  and  he  had  to  turn  his 
back  on  it ;  it  made  him  furious.  He  was  exasperated  with 
himself  because  so  much  of  his  money  was  gone,  and  he 
had  to  do  what  he  didn't  want  to  do.  The  money  instead 
of  making  things  easier  had  messed  them  into  an  enraging 
tangle.  Life  always  went  against  him — he  saw  the  past 
as  governed  by  a  malevolent  fate  whose  business  had  been 
a  continual  creating  of  pitfalls  for  his  unwary  feet. 

One  thing  was  certain,  he  must  have  done  with  Pancha. 
Fortunately  for  him,  it  would  not  be  hard.  He  would 

140 


The  Last  Dinner 


give  his  bridle  rein  a  shake  beside  the  river  shore,  and 
let  the  fact  that  he  had  gone  sink  into  her,  not  in  a  break 
of  brutal  suddenness,  but  by  slow,  illuminating  degrees. 
For  if  he  was  to  carry  out  his  idea — and  there  was  noth- 
ing else  to  be  done — there  must  be  no  entanglements  with 
such  as  Pancha.  He  must  be  foot-loose  and  free,  no 
woman  clinging  to  that  shaken  bridle  rein  with  passionate, 
restraining  hands. 

Cross  and  dispirited  he  entered  the  hotel  and  mounted 
to  his  room.  He  was  beginning  to  hate  it,  its  hideous 
hotel  furniture,  the  memory  of  hours  of  ennui  spent  there. 
Against  his  doorsill  the  evening  paper  lay,  and  picking 
it  up  he  let  himself  in  and  lighted  the  gas.  On  the  mantel 
the  small  nickel  clock  seemed  to  start  out  at  him,  inso- 
lently proclaiming  the  hour,  half  past  seven.  He  groaned 
in  desperation  and  cast  the  paper  on  the  table.  It  had 
been  folded  once  over,  and  as  it  struck  the  marble,  fell 
open.  Across  the  front  page  in  glaring  black  letters  he 
read  the  words, 

"Knapp,  the  bandit,  caught  at  Sheeps  Bar." 


CHAPTER  XVI 

THROUGH  A  GLASS  DARKLY 

THAT  night  Mayer  could  not  sleep.  He  kept  assur- 
ing himself  there  was  nothing  to  fear,  yet  he  did 
fear.  Dark  possibilities  rose  on  his  imagination — 
in  his  excitement  at  finding  the  treasure  he  might  have 
left  something,  some  betraying  mark  or  object.  Was 
there  any  way  in  which  the  bandits  could  have  obtained 
a  clew  to  his  identity ;  could  they  have  guessed,  or  discov- 
ered by  some  underground  channel  of  espionage,  that  he 
was  the  man  who  had  robbed  them?  Over  and  over  he 
told  himself  it  was  impossible,  but  he  could  not  lift  from 
his  spirit  a  dread  that  made  him  toss  in  restless  torment. 

With  the  daylight,  his  nerves  steadied,  and  a  perusal 
of  the  morning  papers  still  further  calmed  him.  Only  one 
man  had  been  caught — Knapp.  Garland  had  broken 
through  the  window,  and  with  the  darkness  and  his  knowl- 
edge of  the  country  to  aid  him,  had  made  his  escape.  The 
sheriff's  bullet  had  not  done  its  work;  no  man  seriously 
wounded  could  have  eluded  the  speed  and  vigilance  of  the 
pursuit.  A  posse  was  now  out  beating  the  hills,  but  with 
the  long  stretch  of  night  in  his  favor  he  had  slipped 
through  their  fingers  and  was  safe  somewhere  in  the 
chaparral  or  the  mountains  beyond.  If  his  friends  could 
not  help  him,  a  force  more  implacable  than  sheriff  or 
deputy  would  bring  him  to  justice:  hunger. 

The  paper  minutely  described  Knapp — young,  thirty 
he  said,  a  giant  in  strength,  and  apparently  simple  and 
dull-witted.  The  game  up,  he  accepted  the  situation 


Through  a  Glass  Darkly 


stoically  and  was  ready  to  tell  all  he  knew.  Then  followed 
a  summary  of  his  career,  his  meeting  with  Garland  six 
years  before  and  their  joint  activities.  Of  his  partner's 
life  where  it  did  not  touch  his  he  had  no  information  to 
give.  They  met  up  at  intervals,  planned  their  raids,  exe- 
cuted them  and  then  separated.  He  knew  of  Garland  by 
no  other  name,  had  no  knowledge  of  his  habitats  or  of 
what  friends  he  had  among  the  ranchers  and  townspeople. 
His  description  of  the  elder  man  was  meager ;  all  he  seemed 
sure  of  was  that  Garland  had  once  been  a  miner,  that  he 
wanted  to  quit  "the  road,"  and  that  he  was  middle-aged, 
somewhere  around  forty-five  or  it  might  be  even  fifty. 
Hop  Sing,  the  Chinaman,  was  equally  in  the  dark  as  to 
the  man  who,  the  papers  decided,  had  been  the  brains  of 
the  combination.  The  restaurant  keeper  had  merely  been 
a  humble  instrument  in  his  strong  and  unscrupulous  hand. 

So  far  there  was  no  mention  of  the  cache  in  the  tules. 
The  reporters,  spilled  out  in  the  damp  discomfort  of  the 
county  seat,  were  filling  their  columns  with  anything  they 
could  scrape  together,  but  it  was  still  too  early  for  them 
to  have  scraped  more  than  the  obvious,  surface  facts. 
Mayer  would  have  to  wait.  As  he  sat  at  the  table,  picking 
at  his  breakfast,  his  mind  darkly  disturbed,  he  wondered 
if  he  had  not  better  get  out,  arid  then  called  himself  a 
fool.  He  was  secure,  absolutely  secure.  The  man  of  the 
two  who  had  had  some  capacity  had  escaped,  and  if  he 
had  had  the  capacity  of  Napoleon  how  could  he  possibly 
have  anything  to  say  that  would  involve  Boye  Mayer  ? 

So  he  soothed  himself  and,  braced  by  a  cup  of  coffee 
and  a  cold  bath,  began  to  feel  at  ease.  But  he  decided 
to  keep  to  his  room  till  he  knew  more.  If  anything  should 
happen  he  could  break  away  quickly  and  he  felt  safer  un- 
der cover.  Now,  more  than  ever,  he  feared  the  eyes  of 
honest  men. 

143 


Treasure  and  Trouble  Therewith 

He  had  reached  this  decision  when  he  suddenly  remem- 
bered Pancha.  The  thought  of  her  came  with  an  impact, 
causing  him  to  stiffen  and  give  forth  a  low  ejaculation. 
His  mind  ran  with  lightning  speed  over  what  he  had  been 
reading,  then  flashed  back  to  her.  Was  this  man,  this 
hulking  country  Hercules,  her  "best  beau,"  or  was  it  the 
other  one,  Garland,  the  one  who  had  the  brains,  and  who 
was  old?  It  was  more  likely  Knapp.  He  could  have 
come  to  the  city,  seen  her  play,  been  inspired  by  a  passion 
that  made  him  daring,  been  her  choice  till  Mayer  had 
come  and  conquered. 

Her  place  in  the  affair,  overlooked  in  the  first  shock 
of  his  own  alarms,  rose  before  him,  formidable  and  threat- 
ening. A  desire  to  see  her,  deeper  than  any  he  had  yet 
experienced,  seized  him.  Her  guard  would  be  down ;  with 
all  her  sly  skill  she  could  not  deceive  him  now.  She  would 
be  frightened,  she  was  in  danger,  she  would  betray  herself. 
Even  if  she  had  long  ceased  to  care  for  the  man,  she  might 
have  some  fears  for  him,  and  how  much  more  fears  for 
herself?  As  he  realized  the  perils  of  her  position,  a  faint, 
slow  smile  curved  his  lips.-  It  was  not  of  derision  but  of 
a  cynical  comprehension.  He  saw  her  scared  to  the  soul, 
scared  of  discovery  as  Knapp's  girl,  who  was  aware  of 
his  business,  who  kept  tab  on  his  comings  and  goings. 
For  all  anyone  knew  some  of  that  money  of  hers,  so  thrift- 
ily hoarded,  might  be  part  of  the  bandit's  unlawful  gains. 

"Whew !"  he  breathed  out.  "She  must  be  frozen  to  the 
marrow !" 

But  he  did  not  dare  go  to  her  till  he  was  more  certain 
of  how  he  himself  stood. 

The  next  day  was  Sunday,  and  on  the  Despatch's  front 
page  appeared  Knapp's  picture  and  his  story  of  the  rifled 
cache.  Licking  along  his  dry  lips  with  a  leathern  tongue, 
Mayer  read  it  and  then  cast  the  paper  on  the  floor  and 

144 


Through  a  Glass  Darkly 


sank  back  in  his  chair  in  a  collapse  of  relief.  Neither  man 
had  had  any  suspicion  of  the  identity  of  the  robber;  all 
they  knew  was  that  their  hiding  place  had  been  discovered 
and  the  treasure  stolen. 

He  was  safe,  safer  than  he  had  ever  felt  before.  As  the 
tramp,  only  two  people  had  seen  him  near  the  marshes,  a 
child  and  a  boy  in  a  ranch  yard.  Even  if  either  of  them 
should  remember  and  speak  of  him  in  relation  to  the  theft, 
was  there  a  human  being  who  would  connect  that  tramp 
with  Boye  Mayer,  gentleman  of  leisure,  in  California  for 
his  health?  He  raised  his  eyes  and  encountered  his  re- 
flection in  the  mirror.  Gathering  himself  into  an  upright 
posture,  he  studied  it,  aristocratic,  cold,  immeasurably 
superior;  then,  closing  his  eyes,  he  called  up  the  image  of 
himself  as  he  had  been  when  he  crossed  the  tules.  No  one, 
unless  gifted  with  second  sight,  could  have  recognized  the 
one  in  the  other.  Dropping  back  in  his  chair,  he  raised 
his  glance  to  the  floriated  cement  molding  on  the  ceiling, 
from  which  the  chandelier  depended,  feeling  as  if  borne  by 
a  peaceful  current  into  a  shining,  sunlit  sea. 

There  was  a  performance  at  the  Albion  on  Sunday 
night,  but  no  rehearsal,  and  in  the  gray  of  the  afternoon 
he  went  across  town  to  see  Pancha. 

He  found  her  in  a  litter  of  dressmaking — lengths  of 
material,  old  costumes,  bits  of  stage  jewelry,  patterns, 
gold  lace,  were  outspread  on  chairs,  hung  from  the  table, 
lay  in  bright  rich  heaps  on  the  floor.  The  shabby  room, 
glowing  with  the  lights  on  lustrous  fabrics,  the  gloss  of 
crumpled  silks,  the  glints  and  sweeps  and  sparklings  of 
color,  looked  as  if  in  the  process  of  transformation  at  the 
touch  of  a  magician's  wand.  In  the  midst  of  it — the  en- 
chanted princess  still  waiting  for  the  wand's  touch — sat 
Pancha,  in  a  faded  blouse  and  patched  skirt,  sewing.  Part 
of  her  transformation  was  accomplished  when  she  saw 

145 


Treasure  and  Trouble  Therewith 

Mayer.  If  her  clothes  remained  the  same,  the  radiance 
of  her  face  was  as  complete  as  if  the  spell  was  lifted  and 
she  found  herself  again  a  princess  encountering  her  long- 
lost  prince. 

His  first  glance  fell  away  startled  from  that  radiant 
face.  There  was  nothing  on  it  or  behind  it  but  joy.  He 
pressed  a  hand  soft  and  clinging,  encircled  a  body  that 
trembled  under  his  arm  and  in  which  he  could  feel  the 
thudding  of  a  suddenly  leaping  heart.  Her  eyes,  search- 
ing his,  shone  with  a  deep,  pervasive  happiness.  She  was 
nothing  but  glad,  quiveringly,  passionately  glad,  moving 
in  his  embrace  toward  a  chair,  babbling  breathless  greet- 
ings ;  she  had  not  expected  him,  she  was  surprised,  she  was 
— and  the  words  trailed  off,  her  face  hidden  against  his 
arm. 

It  was  far  from  what  he  had  expected  and  he  was 
thankful  for  that  moment  when  she  stopped  looking  at  him 
and  he  could  master  his  surprise.  It  nearly  flooded  up 
again  when  he  saw  the  paper,  news  sheet  on  top,  in  a  pile 
by  the  sofa  where  it  had  evidently  been  thrown  as  she  lay 
reading. 

Presently  he  was  in  the  armchair  and  she  was  moving 
about  clearing  things  away  in  a  futile,  incapable  man- 
ner, darting  like  a  perturbed  bird  for  a  piece  of  silk,  then 
dropping  it  and  making  a  dive  for  a  coil  of  chiffon,  which 
she  pressed  half  into  a  drawer  and  left  hanging  over  the 
edge  in  a  misty  trail.  As  she  moved,  she  continued  her 
broken  babblings — excuses  for  the  room's  disorder,  cos- 
tumes for  the  new  piece  to  be  made,  all  the  time  flashing 
looks  at  him,  watchful,  humble,  adoring,  ready  to  come 
at  his  summons  of  word  or  hand.  Finally,  the  materials 
thrown  into  hiding  places,  the  dresses  heaped  on  the  sofa, 
she  came  toward  him — a  lithe,  feline  stealing  across  the 
carpet — and  slipped  down  on  the  floor  at  his  feet. 

146 


"Oh,  silly,  unbelieving  child  !"  came  his  voice. 


Through  a  Glass  Darkly 


"Well,"  he  said,  "what's  the  news?" 

"There  isn't  any,  except  that  I'm  glad  to  see  you." 

She  curled  her  legs  under  her  tailor-fashion,  and  looked 
up  at  him. 

"Nothing's  happened  to  disturb  the  even  tenor  of  your 
way?" 

"Only  rehearsals  for  the  new  piece  and  they  don't 
bother  me  now.  That's  all  that  ever  happens  to  me,  ex- 
cept for  a  gentleman  caller  now  and  again." 

She  caught  his  eye,  and,  her  hands  clasped  round  one 
knee,  swayed  gently,  laughing  in  pure  joy.  He  did  not 
join  in,  adjusting  his  thoughts  to  this  new  puztele.  Lean- 
ing against  the  chair  back,  the  afternoon  light  yellow  on 
his  high,  receding  temples  and  the  backward  brush  of  his 
hair,  his  look  was  that  of  a  fond,  rather  absent-minded 
amusement  such  as  one  awards  to  the  antics  of  a  playful 
child.  To  anyone  watching  him  his  lack  of  response 
would  have  suggested  a  preoccupation  in  more  pregnant 
matters.  Receiving  no  answer,  she  went  on: 

"Only  one  gentleman  caller,  one  sole  alone  gentleman, 
named  Mayer,  who,  I  think,  likes  to  come  here."  She 
paused,  but  again  there  was  no  answer  and  she  finished, 
addressing  the  carpet,  "Or  maybe  I  just  imagine  it,  and 
he  only  comes  dull  Sunday  afternoons  when  there's  no- 
where else  to  go." 

"Oh,  silly,  unbelieving  child!"  came  his  voice,  slightly 
distrait  it  is  true,  but  containing  sufficient  of  the  lover's 
chiding  tenderness  to  fill  her  with  delight. 

But  this  was  not  what  had  brought  him.  The  inter- 
view started,  it  was  his  business  now  or  never  to  solve  the 
enigma.  He  stirred  in  his  chair  and,  raising  a  languid 
hand,  pointed  to  the  paper. 

"I  see  you've  been  reading  the  Despatch" 

"Um-um — this  morning." 

147 


Treasure  and  Trouble  Therewith 

"Very  good  story,  that  one  on  the  front  page,  about 
the  bandit  chap." 

"Knapp?  Yes,  bully.  They've  got  him  at  last.  It  was 
exciting,  wasn't  it?  Like  a  novel.  I  don't  often  read  the 
papers,  but  I  did  read  that." 

She  gave  no  evidence,  either  of  agitation,  or  of  any 
especial  interest.  Unclasping  her  hands  from  about  her 
knee,  she  turned  a  gold  bracelet  that  hung  loose  on  her 
wrist,  Watching  the  light  slide  on  its  surface.  Her  face 
was  gently  unconcerned,  serene,  almost  pensive.  The 
man's  eyes  explored  it,  searched,  scanned  it  for  a  betray- 
ing sign. 

"Did  you  notice  his  picture?  A  pretty  hard-looking 
customer." 

She  nodded,  absently  looking  at  the  bracelet. 

"He  sure  was,  but  they're  not  all  as  bad  as  that.  Once 
down  at  Bakersfield  I  saw  a  bandit.  They  caught  him 
near  a  place  where  I  lived  and  the  sheriff  brought  him  in 
there.  He  looked  like  a  rough  sort  of  rancher,  nothing 
dangerous  about  him." 

The  expression  of  pensiveness  deepened,  increased  by  a 
sudden,  disturbing  thought.  Would  she  tell  him  about 
Bakersfield  and  the  horrible  life  there  with  Maria 
Lopez  ? 

The  temptation  to  be  frank  with  him,  to  have  no  secrets, 
to  let  him  know  her  as  she  was,  assailed  her.  She  re- 
solved upon  it,  drew  a  deep  breath  and  said, 

"I  never  told  you  that  I  once  lived  in  Bakersfield." 

"There  are  lots  of  things  you  never  told  me.  They 
seem  to  think  the  other  fellow — what's  his  name — Gar- 
land— has  really  made  his  escape." 

The  confession  died  on  her  lips.  She  was  glad  of  it; 
she  would  tell  him  later,  some  other  time,  he  was  too  en- 
grossed in  the  bandits  now. 

148 


Through  a  Glass  Darkly 


"I  guess  that's  right.  He's  got  up  in  the  hills  where 
there  are  ranchers  that'll  help  him." 

"Would  any  rancher  dare  to  help  him  now — wouldn't 
they  be  afraid  to?" 

"Not  his  kind.  Country  people  aren't  as  dull  as  you'd 
think.  I've  seen  a  lot  of  them,  when  I  was  a  kid  and  lived 
round  in  small  places.  They  act  sort  of  dumb,  but  some 
of  them  are  awful  smart  behind  it." 

"Probably  get  their  share  of  the  loot." 

"Sure.  That  would  be  the  natural  thing  to  keep  them 
quiet,  wouldn't  it?" 

Mayer  murmured  an  assent  and  drew  himself  to  the 
edge  of  his  chair. 

"I'd  hate  to  be  one  of  them  the  way  things  stand  now ! 
The  law,  when  it  gets  busy,  has  a  pretty  long  arm." 

"I  guess  it  has,"  she  agreed,  toying  with  the  bracelet. 

"Anyone  who  has  had  any  sort  of  dealings,  been  a 
friend  or  a  confederate  of  either  of  those  fellows,  is  in  a 
desperately  ugly  position." 

She  nodded.  He  leaned  still  further  forward,  his  el- 
bows on  his  knees,  his  glance  riveted  on  her. 

"Suppose  either  of  them  had  a  wife  or  a  sweetheart — 
and  it's  probable  they  have — that's  the  person  the  au- 
thorities will  be  after." 

"Yes,"  she  dropped  the  bracelet  and  looked  away  from 
him,  her  expression  dreamy,  "it  would  be.  They'll  start 
right  in  to  hunt  for  them.  If  they  got  them,  what  would 
they  do  to  them?" 

"Do?"  He  suddenly  stretched  an  index  finger  at  her, 
pointing  into  her  face.  "If  they  find  a  woman  or  a  girl 
who's  had  any  acquaintance  or  intimacy  with  either 
Knapp  or  Garland  they'll  land  her  in  jail  so  quick  she 
won't  have  time  to  think.  Jail,  young  woman,  and  after 
that  the  third  degree.  And  if  she's  stood  in  with  them — 

149 


Treasure  and  Trouble  Therewith 

well,  it'll  be  jail  for  a  home  till  she's  served  her  term," 

She  pondered  for  a  moment,  then  said  softly, 

"It  wouldn't  matter  if  she  loved  him." 

"Jail  wouldn't  matter?" 

Her  glance  had  been  fastened  in  meditation  on  the 
shadows  of  the  room.  Now  it  shifted  to  him,  rapt  and 
luminous.  She  raised  herself  to  her  knees  and  laid  a  hand 
on  his  shoulder. 

"Nothing  would  matter  if  he  was  her  man.  It  would 
be  great  to  stand  by  him  and  suffer  for  him.  It  would  be 
happiness  to  go  to  jail  for  him,  to  die  for  him.  There'd 
be  only  one  thing  that  she'd  be  thinking  about — that 
would  make  her  glad  to  do  it — to  know  that  he  loved  her, 
Boye." 

Eye  holding  eye,  she  drew  him  closer  till  her  black- 
fringed  lids  lowered  and  her  face,  held  up  to  his,  offered 
itself — a  symbol  of  a  fuller  gift. 

Gathering  her  in  his  arms,  he  rose  and  drew  her  to 
her  feet.  Pressed  against  him,  shaken  by  the  beating  of 
the  heart  that  leaped  at  his  touch,  she  again  breathed  the 
eternal  question,  "Do  you  love  me" — words  that  come 
from  under-layers  of  doubt  in  the  despairingly  impas- 
sioned. 

He  reassured  her  as  the  unloving  man  does,  lying  to  get 
away,  soothing  with  kisses,  eager  to  break  loose  from 
arms  that  are  unwelcome  and  yet  tempt.  He  played  his 
part  like  a  true  lover  and  at  the  door  was  genuinely 
stirred  when  he  saw  there  were  tears  in  her  eyes.  He  had 
not  guessed  she  could  be  so  tender,  that  her  hard  exterior 
hid  such  depths  of  sweetness.  His  parting  embrace  might 
have  deceived  a  more  love-learned  woman,  and  he  left  her 
with  a  slight,  unwonted  sense  of  shame  in  his  heart. 

Away  from  her,  where  he  could  think,  he  pushed  the 
shame  aside  as  he  was  ready  to  push  her.  The  fire  she 

150 


Through  a  Glass  Darkly 


had  kindled  in  h'm  died;  the  woman  he  had  clasped  and 
kissed  ceased  to  figure  as  a  being  to  desire  and  became  an 
enigma  to  solve. 

The  fate  of  the  bandits  had  touched  no  vulnerable  spot 
in  her.  She  had  been  unmoved  by  it.  Even  did  she  adore 
Mayer  so  ardently  and  completely  that  his  presence  was 
an  anodyne  for  every  other  thought,  she  would  have 
shown,  she  must  have  shown,  some  disturbance.  He  had 
known  women  who  lived  so  utterly  in  the  moment  that  the 
past  lost  its  reality,  was  as  dissevered  from  the  present 
as  though  it  had  never  existed.  Was  she  one  of  these? 
Could  her  relation — whatever  it  was — with  either  of  the 
outlaws  have  been  so  erased  from  her  consciousness  that 
she  could  talk  of  his  danger  with  a  face  as  unconcerned  as 
the  one  she  had  presented  to  Mayer's  vigilant  eye? 

It  was  impossible.  There  would  have  been  a  betrayal, 

a  quiver  of  memory,  a  flash  of  apprehension And 

suddenly,  gripped  by  conviction,  he  stopped  in  the  street 
and  stood  staring  down  its  length. 

Night  was  coming,  the  gray  spotted  with  lamps.  Each 
globe  a  sphere  of  pinkish  yellow,  they  stretched  before 
him  in  a  line  that  marched  into  a  distance  of  mingled 
lights  and  more  accentuated  shadows.  He  looked  along 
them  as  if  they  were  bearing  his  thoughts  back  over  the 
past,  every  globe  a  station  in  the  retrospect,  stage  by 
stage  advancing  him  toward  a  final  point  of  certainty. 

She  didn't  know ! 

It  formed  in  a  sentence,  detached  and  exclamatory,  in 
his  mind,  and  he  stood  staring  at  the  lamps,  people  jos- 
tling him  and  some  of  them  turning  to  look  back. 

Now  that  he  had  guessed  it  everything  became  clear.  It 
was  like  a  piece  of  machinery  suddenly  supplied  with  a 
lacking  wheel  which  moved  it  to  instant  action.  He  walked 
forward,  seeing  all  the  disconnected  elements  take  their 

151 


Treasure  and  Trouble  Therewith 

places,  seeing  the  whole,  harmonious,  intelligently  related 
and  extremely  simple.  That  was  what  had  led  him  astray. 
He  was  not  used  to  simple  solutions;  intricate  byways, 
complex  turnings  and  doublings,  were  what  he  was  trained 
to.  Working  along  the  familiar  lines,  he  had  overlooked 
what  should  have  been  easily  discerned. 

The  man  loved  her,  wanted  to  stand  well  with  her  and 
had  deceived  her  as  to  his  occupation.  And  it  was  the 
older  one — Knapp's  picture  had  been  in  the  paper,  she 
had  seen  it  and  it  had  meant  nothing  to  her.  So  it  was 
Garland,  the  chap  with  the  brains,  on  toward  fifty — but 
these  mountain  men  with  their  outdoor  life  and  unspent 
energies  held  their  youth  long.  His  imagination,  stirred 
to  unwonted  activity,  pictured  him,  an  outcast,  hunted 
and  hiding  in  the  mountain  wilderness.  As  he  had  smiled 
at  the  thought  of  Pancha's  terrors,  he  smiled  now,  and 
again  it  was  a  curving  of  the  lips  that  had  no  humor  be- 
hind it.  It  was  the  bitter  smile  of  an  understanding  that 
has  no  sympathy  and  yet  has  power  to  comprehend. 

As  for  himself,  he  was  out  of  it,  the  mystery  was  solved 
and  he  could  go  his  way  in  peace  of  mind.  It  was  a  fortu- 
nate ending,  come  just  in  time.  There  was  no  need  now 
for  any  more  folly  or  philandering.  They  were  cut  off 
short,  romance  snipped  by  Fate's  shears,  a  full  stop  put 
at  the  last  word  of  the  sentence.  He  had  no  fears  of 
Pancha,  she  knew  too  much  to  make  trouble,  and  anyway 
there  was  nothing  for  her  to  make  trouble  about.  He 
had  treated  her  with  a  consideration  that  was  nothing 
short  of  chivalrous.  Even  if  there  had  been  anyone  be- 
longing to  her  to  take  him  to  task  he  could  defend  his 
•conduct  as  that  of  a  Sir  Galahad — and  there  wasn't  any- 
one. 

He  felt  brisk,  light,  mettlesome.  Troubles  that  had 
threatened  were  dispersed ;  the  future  lay  fair  before  him. 

152 


Through  a  Glass  Darkly 


Relieved  of  all  encumbering  obstacles,  it  extended  in  clear 
perspective  toward  his  idea.  With  keen,  contemplative 
eye  he  viewed  it  at  the  end  of  the  vista,  calculating  his 
distance,  gathering  his  powers  to  cover  it  in  a  swift  dash, 
sure  of  his  success. 


CHAPTER  XVII 

THE  WOLF  IN  SHEEP'S  CLOTHING 

ONE  afternoon,  a  week  later,  Chrjstie  Alston  was 
crossing  Union  Square  Plaza.  It  was  beautiful 
weather,  the  kind  that  comes  to  San  Francisco 
after  long  spells  of  rain.  Across  the  bay  the  distances 
were  deep-hued  and  crystal-clear,  the  hills  clean-edged 
against  a  turquoise  sky.  Green  slopes  showed  below  the 
dense  olive  of  eucalyptus  woods  and  around  the  shore 
were  the  white  clusterings  of  little  towns.  Where  the 
water  filled  in  the  end  of  a  street's  vista  it  was  like  an 
insert  of  blue  enameling,  and  from  the  city's  high  places 
Mount  Diavolo  could  be  seen,  a  pointed  gem,  surmounting 
in  final  sharpness  the  hill's  carven  skyline. 

Chrystie  felt  the  exhilaration  of  the  air  and  the  sun, 
and  walked  with  a  bounding,  long-limbed  swing.  She  was 
a  glad  and  prosperous  figure,  silk  skirts  swept  by  scin- 
tillant  lights  eddying  back  from  the  curves  of  her  hips, 
glossy  new  furs  lying  soft  on  her  shoulders,  and  on  her 
bosom — a  spot  of  purple — a  bunch  of  violets.  Her  eyes 
were  as  clear  as  the  sky,  and  her  hair,  pressed  down  by 
the  edge  of  a  French  hat,  hung  in  a  misty  golden  tangle 
to  her  brows.  No  one  needed  to  be  told  she  was  rich  and 
carefree.  Her  expensive  clothes  revealed  the  former,  her 
buoyant  step  and  happy  expression,  the  latter  condition. 

She  was  halfway  across  the  Plaza  when  her  progress 
suffered  a  check.  There  was  a  drop  in  her  swift  faring, 
a  poised  moment  of  indecision.  During  the  halt  her  face 
lost  its  blithe  serenity,  showed  a  faltering  uncertainty, 

154 


The  Wolf  in  Sheep's  Clothing 


then  stiffened  into  resolution.  Inside  her  muff  her  hands 
gripped,  inside  her  bodice  her  heart  jumped.  Both  these 
evidences  of  agitation  were  hidden  and  that  gave  her  con- 
fidence. Assuming  an  air  of  nonchalance  she  moved  for- 
ward, her  gait  slackened,  her  eyes  abstractedly  shifting 
from  the  sky  to  the  shrubs. 

Boye  Mayer,  advancing  up  the  path,  saw  she  had  seen 
him  and  drew  near,  watchfully  amused.  Almost  abreast 
of  him  she  directed  her  glance  from  the  shrubs  to  his  face. 
Surprise  at  the  encounter  was  conveyed  by  a  slight  lifting 
of  her  brows,  pleasure  and  greeting  by  a  smile  and  inclina- 
tion of  the  head.  Then  she  would  have  passed  on,  but  he 
came  to  a  stop  in  front  of  her. 

"Oh,  don't  go  by  as  if  you  didn't  want  to  speak  to 
me,"  he  said,  and  pressed  a  hand  that  slid  warm  out  of 
the  new  muff. 

Standing  thus  in  the  remorseless  sunshine  she  was 
really  very  handsome,  her  skin  flawless,  her  lips  as  red 
and  smooth  as  cherries.  And  yet  in  spite  of  such  fineness 
of  finish  there  was  no  magic  about  her,  no  allure,  no 
subtlety.  Achieving  graceful  greetings  he  inwardly  de- 
plored it,  noting  as  he  spoke  how  shy  she  was  and  how 
she  sought  to  hide  it  under  a  crude  sprightliness.  There 
was  a  shyness  full  of  charm,  a  graceful  gaucherie  delight- 
ful to  watch  as  the  gambolings  of  young  animals.  But 
Chrystie  was  too  conscious  of  herself  and  of  him  to  be 
anything  but  awkward  and  constrained. 

She  was  going  shopping,  but  when  he  claimed  a  mo- 
ment— just  a  moment,  he  saw  her  so  seldom — went  to 
the  bench  he  indicated  and  dropped  down  on  it.  Here,  a 
little  breathless,  sitting  very  upright,  her  burnished  skirts 
falling  deep-folded  to  the  ground,  she  tried  to  assume  the 
worldly  lightness  of  tone  befitting  a  lady  of  her  looks  in 
such  an  encounter. 

155 


Treasure  and  Trouble  Therewith 

"Do  you  often  go  this  way,  through  the  Plaza?"  he 
asked  after  they  had  disposed  of  the  fine  weather. 

"Yes,  quite  often.  When  it's  a  nice  day  like  this  I 
always  walk  downtown,  and  it's  shorter  going  through 
here." 

"It's  odd  I  haven't  met  you  before.  This  is  my  regular 
beat,  across  here  about  three  and  then  out  toward  the 
Park." 

"That's  a  long  walk,"  Chrystie  said.  "You  must  like 
exercise." 

"I  do,  but  I  also  like  taking  little  rests  on  the  way. 
That  is,  when  I  meet  a  lady" — his  eye  swept  her,  respect- 
fully admiring — "who  looks  like  a  goddess  dressed  by 
Worth." 

She  moved  in  her  flashing  silks,  making  them  rustle. 

"Oh,  Mr.  Mayer,  how  silly,"  was  the  best  she  could 
offer  in  response. 

"Silly!  But  why?"  His  shoulders  went  up  with  that 
foreignness  Chrystie  thought  so  bewitching.  "Why  is  it 
silly  to  say  what's  true?" 

"But    you    know    it's    not — it's    just — er "      She 

wanted  to  retort  with  the  witty  brilliance  that  the  occa- 
sion demanded,  and  what  she  said  was,  "It's  just  hot  air 
and  you  oughtn't  to." 

Then  she  felt  her  failure  so  acutely  that  she  blushed, 
and  to  hide  it  buried  her  chin  in  her  fur  and  sniffed  at 
the  violets  on  her  breast. 

His  voice  came,  close  to  her  ear,  very  kind,  as  if  he 
hadn't  noticed  the  blush, 

"Well,  then,  I'll  express  it  differently.  I'll  say  you're 
just  charming.  Will  that  do?" 

"I  don't  think  I  am.  It  sounds  like  someone  smaller. 
I'm  too  big  to  be  charming." 

That  made  him  laugh,  a  jolly  ringing  note. 

156 


The  Wolf  in  Sheep's  Clothing 


"Whatever  you  think  you  are,  /  think  you're  the  most 
delightful  person  in  San  Francisco." 

The  silks  rustled  again.  Chrystie  lifted  her  eyes  from 
the  violets  to  the  bench  opposite  from  which  two  Italian 
women  were  watching  with  deep  interest  this  coquetting 
of  the  lordlings. 

"Now  you're  making  fun  of  me,"  she  said,  like  a 
wounded  child. 

"Oh,  dear  lady,"  it  was  he  who  was  wounded,  misunder- 
stood, hurt,  "how  unkind  and  how  untrue.  Could  I  make 
fun  of  anyone  I  admired,  I  respected,  I — er — thought  as 
much  of  as  I  do  of  you?" 

She  looked  down  at  her  muff.  Just  for  a  moment  he 
thought  her  shyness  was  quite  winning. 

"I  don't  know — I  don't  know  you  well  enough.  But 
you've  been  everywhere  and  seen  everything,  and  I  must 
seem  so — so — sort  of  stupid  and  like  a  kid.  I  don't  know 
what  you  think,  but  I  know  that's  the  way  I  feel  when 
I'm  with  you." 

The  Italian  women  were  aware  of  a  slight  movement  on 
the  part  of  the  aristocratic  gentleman  which  suggested  an 
intention  of  laying  his  hand  upon  that  of  the  golden- 
haired  lady.  Then  he  evidently  thought  better  of  it,  and 
his  hand  dropped  to  the  head  of  his  cane.  The  golden- 
haired  lady  had  seen  it,  too,  and  affrighted  slid  her  own 
into  the  shelter  of  her  muff.  With  down-drooped  head  she 
heard  the  cultured  accents  of  the  only  perfect  nugget  she 
had  ever  met  murmur  reproachfully, 

"Now  it's  you  who  are  making  fun  of  me.  Why,  Pm 
the  one  who  feels  stupid  and  tongue-tied.  I'm  the  one  who 
comes  away  from  you  abashed  and  embarrassed.  And 
why,  do  you  suppose?  Because  I  feel  I've  been  with  some- 
one who's  so  much  finer  than  all  the  others.  Not  the  pert, 
smart  girl  of  dinners  and  dances,  but  someone  genuine  and 

157 


Treasure  and  Trouble  Therewith 

sincere  and  sweet" — his  glance  touched  the  bunch  of  vio- 
lets— "as  sweet  as  those  violets  you're  wearing." 

Chrystie  experienced  a  feeling  of  astonishment,  mixed 
with  an  uplifting  exaltation.  Staring  before  her  she 
struggled  to  adjust  the  familiar  sense  of  her  shortcom- 
ings with  this  revelation  of  herself  as  a  creature  of  com- 
pelling charm.  She  was  so  thrilled  she  forgot  her  pose 
and  murmured  incredulously, 

"Really?" 

"Very  really.  Why  are  you  so  modest,  little  Miss 
Alston?" 

"I  didn't  know  I  was." 

"Wonderfully  so — amazingly  so.  But  perhaps  it's 
part  of  you.  It  is  so  sometimes  with  a  beautiful 
woman." 

"Beautiful?     Oh,  no,  Mr.  Mayer." 

"Oh,  yes,  Miss  Alston." 

Chrystie  began  to  feel  as  if  she  was  coming  to  life  after 
a  long  period  of  deadness.  She  had  a  consciousness  of 
sudden  growth,  of  expanding  and  outflowering,  of  bursting 
into  glowing  bloom.  A  smile  that  she  tried  to  repress 
broke  out  on  her  lips,  the  repression  causing  it  to  be  one- 
sided, which  gave  it  piquancy.  She  was  invaded  by  a 
heady  sense  of  exhilaration  and  a  new  confidence, 
daring,  almost  reckless.  It  made  it  possible  for  her  to 
quell  a  rush  of  embarrassment  and  lead  the  conversation 
like  a  woman  of  the  world : 

"You're  mistaken  about  my  being  modest.  Everybody 
who  knows  me  well  says  I'm  spoiled." 

"Who's  spoiled  you?" 

"Lorry  and  Aunt  Ellen  and  Fong." 

She  gave  him  a  quick  side  glance,  met  his  eyes,  and 
they  both  laughed,  a  light-hearted  mingling  of  treble  and 
bass. 

158 


The  Wolf  in  Sheep's  Clothing 


The  Italian  women  breathed  deeply  on  their  bench, 
aware  that  the  interchanged  glances  and  chimed  laughter 
had  advanced  the  romance  on  its  happy  way. 

"Three  people  can't  do  any  serious  spoiling — there 
should  be  at  least  four.  Who's  Fong?" 

"Our  Chinaman ;  he's  been  with  us  for  centuries." 

"Let  me  make  the  fourth.    Put  me  on  the  list." 

"I  think  you've  put  yourself  there  without  being  in- 
vited. Since  we  sat  down  you've  done  nothing  but  pay 
me  compliments." 

"Never  mind  that.  Here's  a  sensible  suggestion:  I'll 
judge  myself  if  you're  spoiled  and  if  I  think  you  are  I 
won't  pay  you  one  more.  Isn't  that  fair?" 

"I  think  so." 

"Very  well.  Of  course  I  must  know  you  better,  have  a 
talk  with  you  before  I  can  be  sure.  How  can  we  arrange 
that?  Ah — I  have  it!  Some  bright  afternoon  like  this 
we  might  take  a  walk  together." 

"Yes,  we  could  do  that." 

"We  might  go  to  the  park — it's  wonderful  there  on 
days  like  this." 

She  nodded  and  said  slowly, 

"And  we  could  take  Lorry." 

"To  be  sure,  if  she'd  care  to  come." 

There  was  a  slight  pause  and  he  saw  by  her  profile  there 
was  doubt  in  her  mind. 

"I  don't  know  about  her  caring.  Lorry  doesn't  like 
walking  much." 

"Then  why  ask  her  to  do  it?" 

She  stroked  her  muff,  evidently  discomfited. 

"Well,  you  see,  it's  this  way,  I  don't  think  Lorry'd  like 
me  to  go  with  you  alone." 

"But  why?"  He  drew  himself  up  from  the  bench's 
back,  his  tone  surprised,  slightly  offended.  "Surely  hav- 

159 


Treasure  and  Trouble  Therewith 

ing  invited  me  to  her  house,  she  could  have  no  objection 
to  my  going  for  a  stroll  with  you?" 

"No,  no "  Her  discomfort  was  obvious  now.  "It 

isn't  you.  It's  just  that  father  was  very  particular  and 
Lorry  always  tries  to  do  what  he  would  have  liked." 

"My  dear  young  lady,  your  father's  been  dead  a  good 
many  years.  Things  have  changed  since  then ;  the  cus- 
toms of  his  day  are  not  the  customs  of  ours.  Of  course 
I  wouldn't  suggest  that  you  go  counter  to  your  sister's 
wishes,  but" — he  turned  away  from  her,  huffy,  head  high, 
a  gentleman  flouted  in  his  pride — "it's  rather  absurd  from 
my  point  of  view.  Oh,  well,  we'll  say  no  more  about 
it." 

Chrystie  was  distracted.  It  was  not  only  the  humilia- 
tion of  appearing  out  of  date  and  provincial ;  it  was  some- 
thing much  worse  than  that.  She  saw  Boye  Mayer  re- 
tiring in  majestic  indignation  and  not  coming  back,  leav- 
ing her  at  this  first  real  blossoming  of  their  friendship 
because  Lorry  had  ideas  that  the  rest  of  the  world  had 
abandoned  with  hoop  skirts  and  chignons. 

"Why,  why,"  she  stammered,  alarm  pushing  her  to  the 
recklessness  of  the  desperate,  "couldn't  we  go  and  not  tell 
her?  It's — it's — just  a  prejudice  of  Lorry's — no  one  else 
feels  that  way.  The  Barlow  girls,  who've  been  very 
strictly  brought  up,  go  walking  and  even  go  to  the  theater 
with" — she  was  going  to  say  "their  nuggets"  and  then 
changed  with  a  gasp  to — "the  men  their  mother  asks  to 
her  parties." 

So  Chrystie,  guileless  and  subjugated,  assisted  in  the 
development  of  the  Idea.  She  made  an  engagement  to 
meet  Mr.  Mayer  four  days  later  in  the  Plaza  and  go  with 
him  to  see  the  orchids  in  the  park  greenhouse.  The  Holy 
Spirit  orchid  was  in  bloom  and  she  had  never  seen  it.  A 
flower  with  such  a  name  as  the  Holy  Spirit  seemed  to 

160 


The  Wolf  in  Sheep's  Clothing 


Chrystie  in  some  way  to  shed  an  element  of  propriety  if 
not  righteousness  over  the  adventure. 

It  was  when  they  were  sauntering  toward  the  end  of  the 
Plaza  that  a  woman,  coming  up  a  side  street,  saw  them. 
She  was  about  to  cross  when  her  eye,  ranging  over  the 
green  lawns,  brought  up  on  them  and  she  stopped,  one 
foot  advanced,  its  heel  knocking  softly  against  the  curb- 
stone. As  the  two  tall  figures  moved  her  glance  followed 
them,  her  head  slowly  turning.  She  watched  them  cross 
the  intersection  of  the  streets,  lights  chasing  each  other 
up  and  down  the  lady's  waving  skirt  and  gilding  the  web 
of  golden  hair;  she  watched  them  pass  by  a  show  window, 
its  glassy  surface  holding  their  bright  reflections;  she 
watched  their  farewells  at  the  door  of  a  large  shop  which 
finally  absorbed  the  lady.  Then  she  faced  about,  and 
walked  toward  the  Albion,  where  a  rehearsal  was  awaiting 
her. 

That  afternoon  a  week  had  passed  since  Pancha  had 
seen  her  lover. 

During  the  first  three  days  of  it  she  experienced  a  still 
and  perfect  peace.  She  did  not  want  to  see  him ;  she  had 
reached  a  point  of  complete  assurance  and  was  glad  to 
wait  there,  rest  in  the  joy  that  had  come  to  her,  dwell, 
awed,  on  its  wonderfulness.  In  her  short  periods  of  leisure 
she  sat  motionless,  recalling  lovely  moments,  living  them 
over,  sometimes  asking  herself  why  he  cared  for  her,  then 
throwing  the  question  aside — that  he  did  was  all  that  con- 
cerned her  now. 

On  the  fourth  day  her  serenity  was  disturbed  very 
slightly,  but  she  could  not  banish  a  faint,  intruding  sur- 
prise that  she  had  not  heard  from  him.  She  tried  to 
smother  it  by  a  return  to  her  old  interests,  but  her  work 
had  lost  its  power  to  engross  and  she  went  through  it 
mechanically  without  enthusiasm.  By  the  fifth  her  mental 

161 


Treasure  and  Trouble  Therewith 

state  had  changed.  She  would  not  admit  that  she  was 
uneasy,  but  in  spite  of  her  efforts  a  queer,  upsetting  rest- 
lessness invaded  her.  Everything  was  all  right,  she  kne^ 
it,  but  she  seemed  to  be  dodging  a  shadow  that  fell  thinl} 
across  the  brightness.  That  evening  she  played  badly 
missed  a  cue  and  had  no  snap.  She  realized  it,  saw  i1 
in  the  faces  of  her  fellows,  and  knew  she  must  do  bettei 
or  there  would  be  complaints. 

On  the  way  home  she  argued  it  out  with  herself.  Sh( 
was  thinking  too  much  of  Mayer — worrying  about  noth- 
ing— and  it  was  interfering  with  her  work.  She  oughtn'1 
to  be  such  a  fool,  but  her  place  at  the  Albion  was  im- 
portant, and  a  word  from  him — a  line  or  a  phone  mes- 
sage— would  tone  her  up,  and  she  would  go  on  even  bettei 
than  before.  At  an  "all  night"  drug  store  she  boughl 
a  box  of  pink  notepaper  and  a  sachet,  and  before  she  wenl 
to  bed  put  the  scented  envelope  in  the  box  and  covered 
them  both  with  a  sofa  pillow  to  draw  out  the  perfume. 

In  the  morning,  after  sniffing  delicately  at  the  paper 
which  exhaled  a  powerful  smell  of  musk,  she  sat  at  hei 
table  and  wrote  him  a  letter.  She  made  several  drafts  be- 
fore she  attained  the  tone,  jocose  and  tender,  that  woulc 
save  her  pride  and  draw  from  him  the  line  that  was  tc 
dissipate  her  foolish  fancies. 

DEAREST  BOYE: 

No  one  has  knocked  at  my  door  for  nearly  six  days  now 
Not  even  sent  me  a  telephone  message.  But  I'm  not  com- 
plaining as  maybe  the  caller  may  have  a  lot  of  things  tc 
keep  him  busy.  But  I  would  like  a  word  just  so  I  won'1 
forget  you.  I  don't  want  to  do  that  but  you  know  these  stagt 
dames  do  have  sort  of  tricky  memories.  So  it  might  be  z 
good  idea  to  give  mine  a  jolt.  A  post  card  will  do  it  and  2 
letter  do  it  better,  and  I  guess  yourself  would  do  it  best  oi 
all.  Thine, 

PANCHITA. 

162 


The  Wolf  in  Sheep's  Clothing 


The  next  morning  his  answer  came  and  she  forgot  that 
she  ever  had  been  uneasy.  The  world  shone,  the  air  was 
as  intoxicating  as  wine,  the  sun  a  benediction.  She  kissed 
the  letter  and  pinned  it  in  her  blouse,  where  it  lay  against 
her  heart,  from  which  it  had  lifted  all  care.  The  second 
floor  of  the  Vallejo  rang  to  her  singing,  warbling  runs  and 
high,  crystal  notes,  gushes  of  melody,  and  tones  clear  as  a 
bird's  held  exultingly.  People  passing  stopped  to  listen, 
looking  up  at  the  open  windows.  And  yet  it  was  far  from 
a  love  letter : 

DEAR  PANCHA: 

What  a  brute  I  must  seem.  I've  been  out  of  town,  that's 
ill.  I  have  to  go  every  now  and  then — business  I'm  meditat- 
ing in  the  interior.  I  forgot  to  tell  you  about  it,  but  it  will 
;;ake  up  a  good  deal  of  my  time  from  now  on.  I  won't  be  able 
;o  see  you  as  often  as  I'd  like,  but  as  soon  as  I  have  a  spare 
jnoment  there'll  be  a  knock  at  your  door,  or  someone  waiting 
n  the  alley  to  the  stage  entrance.  Until  then  au  revoir,  or 
n  your  own  beautiful  language,  hasta  manana, 

B. 

If  she  had  seen  Mayer  and  the  blonde  lady  before  the 
•eceipt  of  this  missive  her  alarms  would  have  increased. 
3ut  the  letter  with  one  violent  push  had  sent  her  to  the 
op  of  the  golden  moment  again.  She  was  poised  there 
irmly;  it  would  take  more  than  the  sight  of  Mayer  in 
asual  confab  with  a  woman  to  dislodge  her.  He  knew 
nany  people,  went  to  many  places ;  she  was  proud  of  his 
ocial  progress.  So  undisturbed  was  she  that  as  she 
ralked  to  the  theater  she  smiled  to  herself,  a  sly,  soft 
mile.  How  surprised  the  lady  would  be  if  she  knew  that 
he  shabby  girl  unnoticed  on  the  curb  was  Boye  Mayer's 
hoice — the  Rosamund  of  his  bower,  the  inmate  of  his 
ecret  garden. 


CHAPTER  XVIII 

OUTLAWED 

THE  night  and  the  chaparral  had  made  Garland's 
escape  possible.     In  those  first  moments,  breaking 
through  the  thicket  with  the  shots  and  shouts  of 
his  pursuers  at  his  back,  his  mind  had  held  nothing  but 
a  frantic  fear.     A  thing  of  gaping  mouth  and  strained 
eyes,  he  had  groped  and  rushed,  torn  between  branches, 
splashed  through  streams,  a  menaced  animal  possessed 
by  an  animal's  instinct  for  flight. 

Then  a  bullet,  tearing  the  leaves  above  his  head,  had 
pulled  his  scattered  faculties  together.  He  dropped  and 
lay,  crawled  forward  in  a  moist  darkness,  rose  and  made 
a  slantwise  dart  across  the  hill's  face,  crouching  as  a  bul- 
let struck  into  a  nearby  trunk.  Pausing  to  listen,  he 
could  hear  the  voices  of  his  pursuers  flung  back  and  forth, 
sound  against  sound,  broken,  clamorous,  the  baying  oi: 
the  pack.  Against  the  ground,  trickle  of  water  and  stir 
of  leaves  soft  around  him,  he  lay  for  a  second,  the  breaths 
coming  in  rending  gasps  from  his  lungs. 

By  a  series  of  doublings  and  loops,  he  gained  the  sum- 
mit and  here  rose  and  looked  down.  The  voices  were 
fainter,  the  trampling  among  the  branches  was  drifting 
toward  the  right.  The  lights  of  the  town  showed  a  central 
cluster  with  a  scattering  of  bright,  disconnected  particles 
as  if  a  fiery  thing  had  fallen  and  burst,  sending  sparks 
in  every  direction.  Some  of  them  moved,  a  train  ofj 
dancing  dots,  lanterns  carried  on  the  run — the  town  was 
roused  for  the  man  hunt. 

164 


Outlawed 


He  went  on,  down  from  the  crest  and  then  up;  the 
voices  died  and  he  was  alone  in  the  vast,  enmuffling  dark. 
For  the  time  safe,  he  allowed  himself  a  rest,  flat  on  his 
back  under  a  pine,  breathing  through  open  mouth.  It  was 
then  that  he  was  aware  of  a  wet  warmth  on  his  neck,  and 
feeling  of  it  with  clumsy  fingers  remembered  the  shot  that 
had  followed  the  breaking  of  the  door.  One  inch  to  the 
left  and  he  would  have  been  a  dead  man.  As  it  was,  it 
was  only  a  surface  tear  through  the  flesh  and  he  sopped 
at  it  with  his  bandanna,  muttering  and  wiping  his  fingers 
on  the  moss. 

Presently  he  moved  on  again,  one  with  the  woodland 
creatures  in  their  night  prowls.  He  could  hear  them, 
cracklings  of  twigs  under  their  furtive  feet,  scurrying  re- 
treats before  his  heavier  human  tread.  Once  he  stopped 
at  a  cry,  a  shriek  tearing  open  the  silence  as  the  light- 
ning tears  the  cope  of  the  sky.  He  knew  it  well,  had  heard 
it  often  by  his  camp  fire  in  his  old  prospecting  days — 
the  yell  of  a  California  lion  in  the  mountains  beyond.  The 
night  was  drawing  toward  its  last  deep  hours  when  he 
came  to  a  straight  uprearing  of  rock,  a  ledge,  broken 
and  heaved  upward  in  some  ancient  earth-throe.  He  felt 
along  its  face,  glazed  by  water  films,  close-curtained  by 
shrubs  and  ferns,  found  an  opening  and  crawled  in. 

There  he  stayed  for  a  week;  saw  the  sun  rise  over  the 
sea  of  pines,  wheel  across  the  sky,  drop  behind  the  rock 
whence  its  last  glow  painted  every  tree  top  with  a  golden 
varnish.  Then  came  evening,  long  and  still,  a  great  rush 
of  color  to  the  west,  birds  winging  their  way  homeward, 
shadows  slanting  blue  over  the  slopes,  brimming  purple 
in  the  hollows.  Then  night  with  its  majestic  silence  and 
its  large,  serene  stars.  He  lay  in  the  cave  mouth  look- 
ing at  them,  his  thoughts  ranging  far.  Sometimes  they 
went  back  to  the  past  and  he  remembered  the  deep  blue 

165 


Treasure  and  Trouble  Therewith 

nights  in  Arizona,  the  white  glare  of  the  days.  He  could 
see  the  walls  of  his  ranch  house,  with  the  peppers  in  red 
bunches,  Juana  in  her  calico  wrapper  and  Pancha  playing 
in  the  shade.  He  rose,  cursing,  sopped  his  bandanna  in 
the  water  trickling  from  the  rock  and  put  it  on  his  wound. 
It  hurt  and  made  him  feverish,  a  prey  to  such  harassing 
memories. 

With  a  piece  of  cord  he  found  in  his  pocket  he  made  a 
trap — a  noose  suspended  from  a  bent  sapling — and 
caught  a  rabbit.  This  kept  him  in  food  for  two  days, 
then  setting  it  again  he  broke  the  cord,  and  driven  by 
hunger  went  forth,  revolver  in  hand.  He  saw  fresh  deer 
tracks,  and  was  lucky  enough  to  find  his  quarry,  steal 
close  and  shoot  it.  His  hunger  made  him  reckless  and  he 
lit  a  fire,  roasting  the  meat  on  planted  sticks.  But  the 
birds  came  and  wheeled  about  overhead  and  the  specks  of 
moving  birds  in  the  sky  can  be  seen  from  afar. 

His  forces  restored  by  nourishment  he  grew  restless. 
The  loneliness  of  the  place  oppressed  him  and  he  wanted 
to  hear  of  Knapp.  Knapp  had  been  caught  and  Knapp 
would  talk  and  he  burned  to  know  what  Knapp  would 
say  of  him.  He  was  sure  the  man  knew  little ;  he  had 
foreseen  such  a  catastrophe  and  been  as  secret  as  the 
grave,  but  Knapp  might  have  picked  up  something.  Any- 
way he  wanted  to  know  just  how  he  stood.  Food,  his 
greatest  need,  supplied,  his  next  was  news,  someone  to 
tell  him,  or  a  newspaper. 

The  people  who  stood  in  with  him  were  scattered  far. 
Up  beyond  Angels  the  Garcias  were  his  friends,  and  over 
to  the  left,  on  the  bend  of  the  river  near  Pine  Flat,  Old 
Man  Haley,  reputed  cracked  and  a  survivor  of  the  great 
days  of  the  lode,  had  been  his  confederate  from  the  start. 
But  Haley's  shack  was  too  near  Pine  Flat,  and  now  with 
a  reward  probably  offered,  he  feared  the  Garcias — 

166 


Outlawed 


greasers,  father  and  son,  not  to  be  trusted.  The  wisest 
course  was  to  lie  low  and  keep  to  himself,  anyway  till  he 
knew  more. 

So  he  tracked  across  the  country  from  landmark  to 
landmark,  a  cave,  an  abandoned  tunnel,  the  shell  of  a 
ruined  cabin.  He  left  the  foothills  and  went  back  toward 
the  mountain  spurs  where  ridge  rises  beyond  ridge,  and 
at  the  bottom  of  ravines  rivers  lie  like  yellow  threads.  Na- 
ture held  him  aloof,  an  atom  leaving  no  mark  upon  it,  an 
intruder  on  its  musing  self-engrossment.  He  moved,  se- 
cure and  solitary,  seeing  no  living  thing  but  the  game  he 
shot  and  the  hawk  hanging  poised  in  the  blue.  Sometimes 
he  sat  for  hours  watching  its  winged  shadow  float  over 
the  tree  tops. 

Finally  he  knew  he  would  have  to  return  to  the  settle- 
ments, for  his  store  of  cartridges  was  almost  exhausted. 
He  tried  to  hoard  them,  eking  out  his  deer  meat  with  roots 
and  berries  till  body  and  nerve  began  to  weaken.  That 
decided  him  and  he  started  back,  eating  only  just  enough 
to  give  him  strength  to  get  there.  He  was  nearly  spent 
when  he  found  himself  once  more  among  the  chaparral's 
low  growth,  looking  down  on  the  brown  and  green  fields. 

There  was  a  ranch  below  him  whose  acres  stretched 
like  a  patterned  cloth  along  the  hill's  slant.  The  house, 
white-painted,  stood  in  the  midst  of  cultivated  land  which 
he  would  have  to  cross  to  reach  it.  But  driven  by  hunger 
he  stole  down,  his  way  marked  by  a  swaying  in  the  close- 
packed  foliage.  He  could  see  the  smoke  rising  in  a  blue 
skein  from  its  chimney  and  at  night  its  windows  break  out 
in  bright  squares.  He  drew  close  enough  to  watch  the 
men  go  off  to  their  work  and  the  women  move,  sunbon- 
neted,  about  the  yard. 

The  second  day,  faint  and  desperate,  he  ventured;  it 
was  midmorning,  the  men  away  in  the  fields  till  noon.. 

167 


Treasure  and  Trouble  Therewith 

There  was  not  a  sound  when  he  reached  the  house,  skirted 
the  rear,  and  walked  round  to  the  side  where  a  balcony 
ran  the  length  of  the  building.  Chairs  stood  here  and  evi- 
dences of  sewing,  work  baskets,  spools  and  scissors,  and 
a  tumbled  heap  of  material.  On  the  step  lay  a  newspaper 
and  he  was  stretching  his  hand  for  it  when  he  heard  the 
voices  of  women. 

Through  an  open  door  he  saw  them — two — standing  in 
front  of  a  mirror,  one  with  her  back  toward  him,  in  a 
blouse  of  pink  that  she  was  pulling  into  a  waistband.  The 
other  watched  her,  pins  in  her  mouth,  a  tape  measure 
over  her  arm.  Both  were  absorbed,  the  one  in  her  reflec- 
tion in  the  glass,  the  other  in  the  pink  blouse.  He  trod 
on  the  step  with  a  heavy  foot  and  muttered  a  gruff  "Say, 
lady." 

The  women  flashed  round  and  he  saw  them  to  be  middle- 
aged  and  young — a  mother  and  daughter  evidently.  The 
elder  with  a  quick,  defensive  movement  walked  to  the  door- 
way and  stood  there,  blocking  it.  He  heard  the  younger 
exclaim,  "A  tramp!"  and  then  she  came  forward,  squeez- 
ing in  beside  her  mother.  Hostility  and  apprehension 
were  on  both  their  faces. 

"What  do  you  want  here?"  said  the  elder  sharply. 

"Somethin5  to  eat,"  he  answered,  trying  to  make  his 
hoarse  tones  mild ;  "I  bin  on  the  tramp  for  days." 

"No,  no,  go  off,"  she  cried,  waving  him  away. 

"I'm  starved,"  he  pleaded.  "Any  bones  or  scraps'll  do 
me." 

They  eyed  him,  still  apprehensive,  but  evidently  im- 
pressed by  his  appearance. 

"Honest  to  God  it's  true,"  he  said,  snatching  at  his 
advantage.  "Can't  you  see  it  by  the  looks  of  me?" 

The  girl,  thrusting  her  hand  through  her  mother's  arm 
and  drawing  her  back,  answered, 

168 


Outlawed 


"All  right.     Go  round  to  the  kitchen." 

With  the  words  she  banged  the  door  and  he  heard  the 
click  of  the  lock,  then  their  scurrying  steps,  bangs  of 
other  doors  and  their  receding  voices.  In  a  twinkling  he 
grabbed  the  paper,  thrust  it  into  his  coat  pocket,  and 
slouched  round  to  the  kitchen  door. 

"Stay  out  there,"  called  the  mother  from  within.  "I'll 
give  you  food,  but  I  don't  want  no  tramp  tracking  up 
my  kitchen." 

He  could  see  them  cutting  bread  and  chunks  of  meat, 
flurried  and  he  knew  frightened.  Leaning  against  a  chair 
was  a  rifle,  placed  where  he  could  see  it.  He  could  have 
smiled  at  it  had  he  not  been  so  bound  and  cramped  with 
fear.  As  they  cut  they  interchanged  low-toned  remarks, 
and  once  the  elder  looked  at  him  frowningly  over  her 
shoulder. 

"Why  ain't  you  workin'  ?  A  big,  husky  man  like  you  ?" 
she  asked. 

"I'm  calcalatin'  to  find  work  at  Sonora,  but  I  have  to 
have  the  strength  to  git  there.  I've  had  a  bad  spell  of 
ague." 

The  girl  raised  her  eyes  to  him  and  compassion  soft- 
ened them.  As  she  went  back  to  her  bread-cutting  he 
heard  her  murmur, 

"I  guess  that's  straight.  He  sure  has  an  awful  peaked 
look." 

It  was  she  who  gave  him  the  food,  rolled  in  a  piece  of 
newspaper.  Standing  in  the  doorway,  she  held  it  out  to 
him  and  said,  smiling, 

"There,  it's  a  good  lunch.  I  hope  it'll  brace  you  up 
so  you  can  get  to  Sonora  all  right.  I  believe  you're  tellin' 
the  truth  and  I  wish  you  luck." 

He  grunted  his  thanks  and  made  off,  shambling  across 
the  yard  and  out  into  the  sun-flooded  fields.  He  had  to 

169 


Treasure  and  Trouble  Therewith 

cross  them  to  get  out  of  range  behind  a  hill  spur  before 
he  turned  into  the  woods.  As  he  walked,  feeling  their  eyes 
boring  into  his  back,  conscious  of  himself  as  hugely 
conspicuous  in  the  untenanted  landscape,  he  opened 
the  paper  and  ate  ravenously,  tearing  at  the  bread  and 
meat. 

He  was  far  afield  before  he  dared  to  rest  and  look  at  the 
paper.  It  was  part  of  the  Sunday  edition  of  the  Stock- 
ton Expositor,  and  in  it  he  read  of  the  approaching  trial 
of  Knapp.  Both  Danny  Leonard  and  Jim  Bailey  had 
identified  him  by  his  hands  and  his  size  as  the  man  who 
had  wounded  the  messenger,  and  Knapp  had  admitted  it. 
The  paper  predicted  a  life  sentence  for  him.  Then  it 
went  on  to  Garland,  who  was  still  at  large.  Various  peo- 
ple were  sure  they  had  seen  him.  A  saloon  keeper  on  the 
outskirts  of  Placerville  was  ready  to  swear  that  a  mounted 
man,  who  had  stopped  at  his  place  one  night  for  a  drink, 
was  the  fugitive  outlaw.  If  this  evidence  was  reliable 
Garland  was  moving  toward  his  old  stamping  ground, 
the  camps  along  the  Feather,  where  it  was  said  he  had 
friends. 

His  relief  was  intense,  for  it  was  evident  Knapp  had 
had  little  to  say  of  him,  and  his  hunters  were  on  the 
wrong  trail.  Food  cravings  appeased,  his  anxieties  tem- 
porarily at  rest,  he  was  easier  than  he  had  been  since  the 
night  at  Sheeps  Bar.  Curled  under  a  thicket  of  madrone 
he  slept  like  a  log  and  woke  in  the  morning,  his  energies 
primed,  his  brain  alert,  thinking  of  Pancha. 

There  were  two  things  that  had  to  be  done — get  a  let- 
ter to  her  and  replenish  his  store  of  cartridges.  If  too 
long  a  time  passed  without  news  of  him,  she  would  grow 
anxious,  might  talk,  might  betray  suspicious  facts  or 
draw  inferences  herself.  A  word  from  him,  dispatched 
from  a  camp  along  the  lode,  would  quiet  her.  So  he  must 

170 


Outlawed 


gird  his  loins  for  the  perilous  venture  of  a  break  into  the 
open  under  the  eyes  of  men. 

Up  beyond  Angels,  slumbering  amid  its  rotting  placers 
and  abandoned  ditches,  lies  the  old  camp  of  Parleys.  In 
times  past  it  was  a  stop  on  the  way  to  the  Calaveras  Big 
Trees,  but  after  the  railroad  diverted  the  traffic  to  the 
Mariposa  Group,  Parleys  was  left  to  pursue  its  tranquil 
way  undisturbed  by  stage  or  tourist.  Still  it  remains,  if 
stagnant,  self-respecting,  has  a  hotel,  a  post  office  and  a 
street  of  stores,  along  which  the  human  flotsam  and  jetsam 
of  the  mineral  belt  may  drift  without  exciting  comment. 
A  derelict  could  pass  along  its  wooden  sidewalk,  drop  a 
letter  in  the  post  box,  even  buy  a  box  of  cartridges  with- 
out attracting  notice.  And  even  if  he  should  be  noticed, 
Parleys  was  sleepy  and  a  good  way  from  anywhere. 
Warnings  sent  from  there  would  not  be  acted  upon  too 
quickly.  A  man  could  catch  the  eye  of  Parleys,  wake  its 
suspicions  and  get  away  while  it  was  talking  things  over 
and  starting  the  machinery  for  his  arrest. 

This  was  the  place  he  decided  on  and  forthwith  moved 
toward.  He  had  four  cartridges  and  if  game  was  plenti- 
ful and  his  aim  good  he  might  make  Parleys  and  still  have 
one  or  maybe  two  left. 

But  it  took  longer  than  he  calculated,  swollen  rivers 
blocking  his  path,  luck  going  against  him.  Three  of  his 
cartridges  were  expended  on  a  deer  before  he  brought 
it  down  and  the  rains  came  back,  blinding  and  torrential. 
Forced  to  make  detours  because  of  the  unfordable  streams 
he  lost  his  way  and  spent  precious  hours  groping  about  in 
pine  forests,  dark  as  twilight,  their  boughs  bent  to  the 
onslaught  of  the  storm.  Crossing  a  watercourse  he  fell 
and  his  matches  were  soaked,  and  that  night,  crouched 
against  a  tree  trunk,  a  creature  less  protected  than  the 
beasts  who  had  their  shelters,  he  sucked  the  raw  meat. 

171 


Treasure  and  Trouble  Therewith 

The  next  day  his  misfortunes  reached  a  climax  when 
he  used  his  last  bullet  on  a  rabbit  and  missed  it.  He  went 
on  for  twelve  hours,  and  in  the  darkness  under  a  mass  of 
dripping  bracken  began  to  think  of  Farleys  less  as  a  place 
of  peril  than  as  a  refuge,  even  though  known  for  what 
he  was.  But  he  pushed  that  thought  away  as  other  men 
push  temptation  and  tried  to  sleep  under  his  saturated 
tent.  In  the  morning  he  was  on  the  trail  with  the  first 
light,  staggering  a  little,  squinting  down  the  columned 
aisles  for  open  ground  whence  he  could  look  out  and  get 
his  bearings. 

It  was  late  in  the  afternoon,  dusk  at  hand,  when  he  saw 
the  light  of  a  clearing.  He  hastened,  staring  ahead,  stood 
for  a  stunned  second,  then  leaped  behind  a  tree,  muscles 
tight,  the  dull  confusion  of  his  brain  gone.  Looming  high 
through  the  gray  of  the  twilight,  balconied,  many-win- 
dowed, was  a  large  white  building.  Outhouses  sprawled 
at  one  side,  a  weed-grown  drive  curved  to  its  front  steps, 
down  the  slant  of  its  roof  the  rain  ran,  spouting  from 
broken  gutters  and  lashing  the  shutters  that  blinded  its 
tiers  of  windows. 

The  first  shock  over,  he  stole  cat-soft  from  trunk  to 
trunk,  studying  it.  There  were  no  lights,  no  smoke  from 
the  chimneys,  no  sign  of  habitation.  A  loosened  shutter 
on  the  ground  floor  banged  furiously,  calling  out  echoes 
from  the  solitude.  He  circled  the  back  of  it,  round  by 
the  outbuildings,  a  lot  of  them,  one  like  a  stable — all 
silent.  Then  made  his  way  to  the  side  with  its  deep,  first- 
floor  veranda  and  was  creeping  toward  the  front  when 
he  ran  into  something — a  circular  construction  covered 
with  a  rough  bark  and  topped  by  a  balustrade. 

One  look  at  it  and  he  gave  a  smothered  exclamation  and 
ran  back  among  the  trees.  The  light  was  almost  gone, 
but  there  was  enough  to  show  a  line  of  enormous  shafts 

172 


Outlawed 


towering  into  a  remote  blackness.  Like  reddish  monoliths 
they  reared  themselves  in  a  receding  file,  silence  about 
their  feet,  their  crests  far  aloft  moaning  under  the  wind. 
In  the  encroaching  darkness  they  showed  like  the  pillars 
of  a  temple  reared  by  some  primordial  race  of  giants, 
their  foliage  a  roof  that  seemed  to  touch  the  low  sky. 

He  knew  where  he  was  now — the  Calaveras  Big  Trees. 
The  house  was  the  old  hotel,  once  a  point  of  pilgrimage, 
long  since  fallen  from  popularity  and  left  to  gradual  de- 
cay. In  summer  a  few  travelers  found  their  way  there, 
but  at  this  season  the  spot  was  in  as  complete  a  solitude 
as  it  had  been  when  the  first  gringoes  came  and  stood  in 
silent  awe. 

He  broke  his  way  in  by  the  window  with  the  loosened 
shutter  and  passed  through  the  dimness  of  long  rooms, 
bare  and  chilly,  his  steps  loud  on  the  uncarpeted  floors. 
The  place  was  damp  and  had  the  musty  smell  of  a  house 
long  unaired  and  unoccupied.  The  double  doors  into  the 
dining  room  were  jammed  and  he  had  to  wrench  them 
open ;  in  the  pantry  a  windowpane  was  broken  and  the  rain 
had  seeped  in.  Here,  on  a  three-legged  table,  he  found 
a  calendar  and  remembered  hearing  that  the  hotel  had 
been  opened  during  the  previous  summer,  but  that,  business 
being  bad,  the  proprietor  had  closed  it  after  a  few  weeks. 

In  the  kitchen  he  found  signs  of  this  period  of  habita- 
tion. On  a  shelf  in  a  cupboard,  hidden  by  a  debris  of 
paper  and  empty  boxes,  he  came  upon  two  cans  evidently 
overlooked.  He  took  them  to  the  window,  threw  back  the 
shutter,  and  saw  they  contained  tomatoes  and  cherries. 
This  heartened  him  to  new  efforts  and  he  began  a  search 
through  the  dirty  desolation  of  the  room.  He  was  re- 
warded by  finding  a  half-filled  match  box,  a  few  sticks  of 
split  wood  and  in  the  bottom  of  a  coal  bunker  in  the  pas- 
sage enough  coal  to  make  at  least  one  good  fire. 

173 


Treasure  and  Trouble  Therewith 

Before  he  started  it  he  closed  the  shutter  tight,  then, 
groping  in  the  dusk,  filled  the  big  range  with  paper  and 
wood  and  set  a  match  to  it.  It  flickered,  caught,  snapped 
cheerily,  light  flickering  along  the  walls,  shining  between 
the  bars.  He  poured  on  the  coal,  opened  all  the  draughts, 
saw  the  iron  grow  slowly  red  and  felt  the  grateful  warmth. 
With  his  knife  he  cut  open  the  tomato  can,  heated  its  con- 
tents in  a  leaky  saucepan,  and,  taking  it  to  the  sink, 
spooned  it  up  with  a  piece  of  wood.  The  cherries  were 
his  dessert. 

After  that  he  peeled  off  his  outer  clothes  and  lay  on  the 
floor  in  front  of  the  range.  It  threw  out  a  violent  heat, 
but  not  too  much  for  him ;  he  luxuriated,  basked  in  it,  de- 
lighting in  the  rosy  patches  that  grew  on  the  stove's  rusty 
surface,  the  bright  droppings  from  its  grate.  Holding 
his  stiff  feet  out  to  it,  he  cooked  himself,  stretching  and 
turning  like  a  cat.  Finally,  he  lay  quiet,  his  hands  clasped 
behind  his  head,  his  eyes  touching  points  that  the  red 
light  played  upon,  and  listened  to  the  rain.  The  building 
shook  to  its  buffets;  it  swept  like  feeling  fingers  across 
the  windows,  drummed  on  the  low  roofs  of  the  outhouses, 
ran  in  a  spattering  rush  along  the  balcony.  The  sound 
of  it  soothed  him  like  a  lullaby,  and  with  the  banging  of 
the  unfastened  shutter  loud  in  his  ears  he  slept  the  sleep 
of  the  just. 

The  next  morning,  with  the  daylight  to  help  him,  he 
extended  his  search  and  found  a  few  spoonfuls  of  tea  in 
a  glass  preserve  jar,  a  handful  of  moldy  potatoes  in  a 
gunny-sack  and  in  a  shed  back  of  the  kitchen  a  pile  of 
cut  wood.  He  breakfasted  royally,  finishing  the  remains 
of  the  cherries,  built  the  fire  up  high  and  hot,  and  started 
to  explore  the  house. 

It  was  as  empty  as  a  shell,  room  opening  out  of  room, 
half  lighted,  bare  and  dismal.  There  was  nothing  to  be 

174 


Outlawed 


got  out  of  it  and  he  was  back  on  his  way  to  the  warmth 
of  the  kitchen  when  he  thought  of  the  broken-legged  table 
in  the  pantry.  Propping  this  up  against  the  window 
ledge,  a  drawer  fell  from  it,  scattering  sheets  of  paper 
and  envelopes  on  the  floor.  He  stood  staring  at  them, 
lying  round  his  feet,  fallen  there  as  if  from  heaven  to  sup- 
ply his  last  and  now  greatest  need.  With  an  upturned 
box  for  a  seat,  the  stub  of  pencil  he  always  carried  sharp- 
ened to  a  pin  point  by  his  knife,  he  steadied  the  table  on 
the  windowsill,  and  sat  down  to  write  to  Pancha.  He 
wrote  the  word  "Parleys"  at  the  top  of  the  sheet,  as  he 
knew  she  would  see  the  Parleys  postmark,  but  the  date  he 
omitted : 

MY  DEARY  PANCHITA  :  Parleys 

Here's  the  old  man  writing  to  you  from  Farley's.  Sort  of 
small,  dead  place,  but  there's  business  moving  round  it,  so  I 
got  washed  up  here  for  a  few  days.  I  ain't  had  anything  that's 
good  yet,  but  there's  a  feller  that  looks  like  he  might  nibble, 
and  take  it  from  me  my  hooks  are  out.  Anyways  if  he  does 
I'll  let  you  know.  Plenty  lot  of  rain,  but  I've  been  comfortable 
right  along.  Got  a  good  room  here  and  swell  grub.  And  don't 
you  worry  about  my  roomatiz.  All  you  want  to  know  is  I  ain't 
got  it.  I  can't  give  you  no  address,  as  I'm  moving  on  soon, 
Wednesday  maybe.  But  I'll  drop  you  a  line  from  somewheres 
as  soon  as  I  got  anything  to  say.  You  want  to  remember  I'm 
all  right  and  as  happy  as  I  ever  am  when  I  ain't  with  my  best 
girl.  This  leaves  me  in  good  health,  which  I  hope  it  finds  you. 

YOUR  BEST  BEAU. 

The  rain  lasted  that  day,  but  on  the  next  the  sun  rose 
on  a  world  washed  clean,  woodland-scented,  fresh  and 
beautiful.  The  time  had  come  for  him  to  dare.  At  nightfall 
he  started,  a  young  moon  to  guide  him,  followed  a  road 
ankle  high  in  ruts  and  mud,  and  at  dawn  crept  into  an 
alder  thicket  for  rest  and  sleep.  It  was  nine,  the  day  well 
started,  when  he  walked  into  Parleys. 

175 


Treasure  and  Trouble  Therewith 

The  little  town  was  up  and  about  its  business,  windows 
open,  housewives  sweeping  front  steps.  The  air  was 
redolent  of  pine  balsam,  the  sun  licking  up  the  water  in 
hollows  on  the  sidewalks,  the  distances  colored  a  trans- 
parent blue.  Outside  the  saloon  the  barkeeper  was  pat- 
ting his  dog,  women  in  sunbonnets  with  string  bags  on 
their  arms  were  on  their  way  to  the  general  store,  men 
were  bringing  out  chairs  and  placing  them  with  ponder- 
ing calculation  the  right  distance  from  the  hitching  bar. 

He  bought  his  stamp  and  posted  his  letter,  the  man 
inside  the  window  offering  comments  on  the  weather.  Then 
he  had  to  face  the  length  of  the  street ;  he  had  been  there 
before  and  knew  the  hardware  store  was  at  its  other  end. 
As  he  traversed  it  the  heads  of  the  men — already  settled 
in  their  chairs  for  the  day — turned  hopefully  at  the  sound 
of  his  masculine  tread.  It  might  be  someone  who  would 
stand  a  drink,  and  even  if  it  wasn't,  staring  at  a  passerby 
was  something  to  do.  To  run  such  a  gauntlet  required  all 
his  fortitude,  and  as  he  walked  under  the  battery  of  eyes 
the  sweat  gathered  on  his  face  and  his  heart  thumped  in 
his  throat. 

The  clerk  at  the  hardware  store  was  reading  a  paper. 
When  he  went  for  the  cartridges  he  left  it  on  the  counter 
and  the  fugitive  saw  the  heading  of  a  column,  "Garland 
still  eludes  justice."  As  he  waited  he  read  it,  turning 
from  it  to  take  his  package  and  then  back  to  it  as  the 
clerk  made  change.  They  were  hunting  in  the  Feather 
country.  A  blacksmith  beyond  Auburn  swore  he  knew 
the  outlaw  and  had  seen  him,  mounted  on  a  bay  horse,  ride 
past  his  shop  a  week  before  at  sunset.  The  clerk  held 
out  the  change,  and  Garland,  reading,  nodded  toward  the 
counter.  He  was  afraid  to  extend  his  hand,  knowing  that 
it  shook,  and  presently,  dropping  the  paper,  scooped  up 
the  money  with  a  curved  palm. 

176 


Outlawed 


"Looks  like  Garland  was  goin'  to  give  'em  the  slip  after 
all,"  said  the  clerk. 

"Um — looks  that  way,  but  I  wouldn't  bank  on  it.  If 
he's  lyin'  low  in  one  of  them  camps  up  the  Feather  he's 
liable  to  be  seen.  There's  folks  there  that  knows  him  it 
says  here  and  you  can't  always  trust  your  friends.  Fine 
weather  we're  havin'  after  the  rain.  So  long." 

When  he  came  out  into  the  street  he  was  nerved  for  a 
last,  desperate  venture.  He  went  to  the  general  store 
and  bought  a  stock  of  provisions:  bread,  sugar,  bacon, 
coffee  and  tobacco.  The  salesman  was  inclined  to  be 
friendly  and  asked  him  questions,  and  he  explained  him- 
self as  a  prospector  in  the  hills,  cut  off  by  the  recent  rains. 
He  got  away  from  there  as  quickly  as  he  could,  dropped 
down  a  side  path  and  made  for  the  woods  and  "home." 

That  evening  he  went  out  and  lay  under  the  giant  trees, 
and  smoked  his  first  pipe  for  weeks.  The  sunset  gleamed 
through  the  foliage  in  fiery  spots,  here  and  there  piercing 
it  with  a  long  ray  of  light  which  slanted  across  the  red 
trunks.  From  the  forest  recesses  twilight  spread  in 
stealthy  advance,  and  looking  up  he  could  see  bits  of  the 
sky,  scatterings  of  pink  through  the  darkening  green.  It 
was  intensely  quiet,  not  a  stir  of  wind,  not  a  bird  note,  or 
leaf  rustle.  The  place  was  held  in  that  mysterious  silence 
which  broods  over  the  Californian  country  and  suggests 
a  hushed  and  ominous  attention.  It  is  as  if  nature  were 
aware  of  some  impending  event,  imminent  and  portentous, 
and  waited  in  tranced  expectancy.  The  outlaw  felt  it, 
and  moved,  disquieted,  setting  his  oppression  down  to  lone- 
liness. 

One  afternoon  a  week  later,  while  standing  at  the 
kitchen  window,  he  saw  a  figure  dart  across  an  opening 
between  the  trees.  It  went  so  swiftly  that  he  was  aware 
of  it  only  as  a  dash  of  darkness,  the  passage  of  a  shadow, 

177 


Treasure  and  Trouble  Therewith 

but  it  left  a  moving  wake  in  the  ferns  and  grasses.  With 
his  heart  high  and  smothering,  he  felt  for  his  revolver  and 
crept  through  the  rooms  to  the  broken  window  on  the 
veranda.  If  he  was  caught  he  would  die  game,  fight  from 
this  citadel  till  his  last  cartridge  was  gone.  His  eyes  to 
a  crack  in  the  shutter  he  looked  out — no  one  was  there. 
The  vista  of  the  forest  stretched  back  as  free  of  human 
presence  as  in  the  days  before  man  had  roamed  its  solemn 
corridors. 

Then  he  saw  it  again ;  the  tightness  of  his  muscles  re- 
laxed, and  the  hand  holding  the  revolver  dropped  to  his 
side.  It  was  a  child,  a  boy ;  there  were  two  of  them.  He 
watched  them  move,  foot  balanced  before  foot,  wary  eyes 
on  the  house,  emerge  from  behind  a  trunk  and  flee  to  the 
shelter  of  the  next  one.  They  were  little  fellows,  eight 
or  perhaps  ten,  in  overalls  and  ragged  hats,  scared  and 
yet  adventurous,  creeping  cautiously  nearer. 

It  was  easy  to  guess  what  they  were  and  what  had 
brought  them:  ranch  children  who  had  seen  the  smoke  of 
his  fire,  and,  knowing  the  hotel  to  be  empty,  had  come  to 
discover  who  was  there.  The  game  was  up — they  might 
have  been  round  the  place  for  hours,  for  days.  He  sud- 
denly threw  open  the  shutters  and  roared  at  them,  an  un- 
expected and  fearful  challenge.  A  moment  of  paralyzed 
terror  was  followed  by  a  wild  rush,  the  bracken  breaking 
under  their  flying  feet.  After  they  had  passed  from  his 
sight  he  could  hear  the  swish  and  crashing  of  their  frantic 
flight.  Two  boys,  so  frightened,  would  not  take  long  to 
reach  home  and  gasp  out  their  story. 

He  left  on  their  heels,  window  and  door  flapping  behind 
him,  the  fire  red  in  the  range. 

Two  days  later  he  found  cover  in  a  deserted  tunnel  back 
in  the  hills.  Its  timbers  sagged  with  the  weight  of  the 
years,  the  yellow  mound  of  its  dump  was  hidden  under  a 

178 


Outlawed 


mantle  of  green.  Even  its  mouth,  once  a  black  hole  in  the 
hillside  verdure,  was  curtained  by  a  veil  of  creepers. 
There  was  game  and  there  was  water  and  there  he  stayed. 
At  first  he  rested,  then  idle  and  inert  lay  among  the  ferns 
on  the  top  of  the  dump,  staring  at  the  distance,  squinting 
up  at  the  sky,  deadened  with  the  weight  of  the  inter- 
minable, empty  days. 


CHAPTER  XIX 
HALF  TRUTHS  AND  INFERENCES 

HRYSTIE  had  developed  a  liking  for  long  walks. 
(I  .  As  she  was  a  person  of  a  lazy  habit  Lorry  inquired 
about  it  and  received  the  answer  that  walking  was 
the  easiest  way  to  keep  down  your  weight.  This  was  a 
satisfactory  explanation,  for  Chrystie  was  of  the  ebullient, 
early-spreading  Californian  type,  and  an  extending  ac- 
quaintance among  girls  of  her  age  might  readily  awake 
a  dormant  vanity.  So  the  walks  passed  unchallenged. 

But,  beside  an  unwonted  attention  to  her  looks,  Lorry 
noticed  that  her  sister  was  changing.  Quite  suddenly  she 
seemed  to  have  emerged  from  childhood,  blossomed  into  a 
grown-up  phase.  She  was  losing  her  irrelevant  high 
spirits,  bubbled  much  less  frequently,  sometimes  sat  in 
silence  for  half  an  hour  at  a  time.  Then  there  were 
moments  when  her  glance  was  fixed  and  pondering,  as  if 
her  thoughts  ranged  afar.  The  new  interest  in  her  ap- 
pearance extended  from  her  figure  to  her  clothes.  She 
spent  so  much  money  on  them  that  Lorry  spoke  to  her 
about  it  and  was  answered  with  mutinous  irritation.  Why 
shouldn't  she  have  pretty  things  like  the  other  girls? 
What  was  the  sense  of  hoarding  up  their  money  like 
misers  ?  Lorry  could  do  it  if  she  liked ;  she  was  going  to 
get  some  good  out  of  hers. 

Lorry  saw  the  change  as  the  result  of  a  widening  social 
experience — she  had  tried  to  find  amusement,  the  proper 
surroundings  of  her  age  and  station,  for  Chrystie  and  she 
had  succeeded.  Gayeties  had  grown  out  of  that  first,  agi- 

180 


Half  Truths  and  Inferences 


tating  dinner  till  they  now  moved  through  quite  a  little 
round  of  parties.  Under  this  new  excitement  Chrystie 
was  acquiring  poise,  also  fluctuations  of  spirit  and  tem- 
per. Lorry  supposed  it  was  natural — you  couldn't  stay 
up  late  when  you  weren't  used  to  it  and  be  as  easy-going 
and  good-humored  as  when  you  went  to  bed  every  night 
at  ten. 

Lorry  might  have  seen  deeper,  but  her  attention  was 
diverted.  For  the  first  time  in  her  life  she  was  thinking 
a  good  deal  about  her  own  affairs.  What  she  felt  was 
kept  very  secret,  but  even  if  it  hadn't  been  there  was  no 
one  to  notice,  certainly  not  Chrystie,  nor  Aunt  Ellen. 
The  only  other  person  near  enough  to  notice  was  Fong, 
and  it  wasn't  Fong's  place  to  help — at  least  to  help  in 
an  open  way. 

One  morning  in  the  kitchen,  when  he  and  "Miss  Lolly" 
were  making  the  menu  for  a  new  dinner,  he  had  said, 

"Mist  Bullage  come  this  time?" 

"Miss  Lolly,"  with  a  faint  access  of  color  and  an  eye 
sliding  from  Fong's  to  the  back  porch,  had  answered, 

"No,  I'm  not  asking  Mr.  Burrage  to  this  one,  Fong." 

"Why  not  ask  Mist  Bullage?"  Fong  had  persisted, 
slightly  reproving. 

"Because  I've  asked  him  several  times  and  he  hasn't 
come." 

That  was  in  the  old  Bonanza  manner.  One  answered 
a  Chinaman  like  Fong  truthfully  and  frankly  as  man  to 
man. 

"He  come  this  time.    You  lite  him  nice  letter." 

"No,  I  don't  want  to,  I've  enough  without  him.  It's 
all  made  up." 

"I  no  see  why — plenty  big  loom,  plenty  good  dinner. 
Velly  nice  boy,  good  boy,  best  boy  ever  come  to  my  boss's 
house." 

181 


Treasure  and  Trouble  Therewith 

"Now,  Fong,  don't  get  side-tracked.  I  didn't  come  to 
talk  to  you  about  the  people,  I  came  to  talk  about  the 
food." 

Fong  looked  at  her,  gently  inquiring,  "You  no  like  Mist 
Bullage,  Miss  Lolly?" 

"Of  course  I  like  him.  Won't  you  please  attend  to 
what  I'm  saying?" 

"Then  you  ask  him  and  I  make  awful  swell  dinner — 
same  like  I  make  for  your  Pa  when  General  Grant  eat 
here." 

When  Fong  had  a  fixed  idea  that  way  there  was  no  use 
arguing  with  him;  one  rose  with  a  resigned  air  and  left 
the  kitchen.  As  Lorry  passed  through  the  pantry  door 
he  called  after  her,  amiable  but  determined, 

"All  samey  Mist  Bullage  no  come  I  won't  make  bird 
nest  ice  cleam  with  pink  eggs." 

No  one  but  Fong  bothered  about  Mr.  Burrage's  ab- 
sence. After  the  evening  at  the  Albion  Chrystie  set  him 
down  as  "hopeless,"  and  when  he  refused  two  dinner  invi- 
tations, said  they  ought  to  have  asked  him  to  wait  on  the 
table  and  then  he  would  have  accepted.  To  this  gibe 
Lorry  made  no  answer,  but  that  night  before  the  mirror 
in  her  own  room,  she  addressed  her  reflection  with  bitter- 
ness: 

"Why  should  any  man  like  me?  I'm  not  pretty,  I'm 
not  clever,  I'm  as  slow  as  a  snail."  She  saw  tears  rise  in 
her  eyes  and  finished  ruthlessly,  "I'm  such  a  fool  that  I 
cry  about  a  man  who's  done  everything  but  say  straight 
out,  *I  don't  care  for  you,  you  bore  me,  do  leave  me 
alone.'  " 

So  Lorry,  nursing  her  hidden  wound,  was  forgetful  of 
her  stewardship. 

It  was  a  pity,  for  there  were  times  when  Chrystie, 
caught  in  a  contrite  mood  and  questioned,  would  have 


Half  Truths  and  Inferences 


told-  Such  times  generally  came  when  she  was  preparing1 
for  one  of  her  walks.  At  these  moments  her  adventure 
had  a  way  of  suddenly  losing  its  glamour  and  appearing 
as  a  shabby  and  underhand  performance.  Before  she  saw 
Mayer  she  often  hesitated,  a  prey  to  a  chill  distaste,  some- 
times even  questioning  her  love  for  him.  After  she  saw 
him  things  were  different.  She  came  away  filled  with  a 
bridling  vanity,  feeling  herself  a  siren,  a  queen  of  men. 
Helen  of  Troy,  seeing  brave  blood  spilled  for  her  posses- 
sion, was  not  more  satisfied  of  her  worth  than  Chrystie 
after  an  hour's  talk  with  Boye  Mayer. 

It  was  the  certainty  of  Lorry's  disapproval  that  made 
secrecy  necessary.  He  soon  realized  that  Lorry  was  the 
governing  force,  the  loved  and  feared  dictator.  But  he 
was  a  cunning  wooer.  He  put  no  ban  upon  confession — if 
Chrystie  wanted  to  tell  he  was  the  last  person  to  stop  it. 
And  having  placed  the  responsibility  in  her  hands,  he 
wove  closer  round  the  little  fly  the  parti-colored  web  of 
illusion.  He  made  her  feel  the  thrill  of  the  clandestine, 
the  romance  of  stolen  meetings,  see  herself  not  as  a  green, 
affrighted  girl,  but  a  woman  queening  it  over  her  own 
destiny,  fit  mate  for  him  in  eagle  flight  above  the  hum- 
drum multitude. 

But  the  moments  when  her  conscience  pricked  still  re- 
curred. She  was  particularly  oppressed  one  afternoon 
as  she  sat  in  her  room  waiting  for  the  clock  to  strike 
three.  At  half  past  she  was  to  meet  Mayer  in  the  plaza, 
opposite  the  Greek  Church.  She  had  no  time  for  a  long 
walk  that  day — an  engagement  for  tea  claimed  her  at  five 
— so  he  had  suggested  the  plaza.  No  one  they  knew  ever 
went  there,  and  a  visit  to  the  Greek  Church  would  be  in- 
teresting. 

Her  hat  and  furs  lay  ready  on  the  bed  and  she  sat  in 
the  long  wicker  chair  by  the  window,  one  hand  supporting 

183 


Treasure  and  Trouble  Therewith 

her  chin,  while  her  eyes  rested  somberly  on  the  fig  tree 
in  the  garden.  She  was  reluctant  to  go ;  she  did  not  know 
why,  except  that  just  then,  waiting  for  the  clock  to  strike, 
she  had  had  an  eerie  sort  of  fear  of  Mayer.  She  told 
herself  it  was  because  he  was  so  clever,  so  superior  to  any 
man  she  had  ever  known.  But  she  wished  she  could  tell 
Lorry,  say  boldly,  "Lorry,  Mr.  Mayer  is  in  love  with 
me" — she  wished  she  could  dare. 

At  that  moment  Lorry  appeared  in  the  doorway  be- 
tween the  two  rooms. 

"Hello,"  she  said.     "How  serious  you  look." 

"I'm  thinking,"  said  Chrystie,  studying  the  fig  tree. 

"Are  you  going  out?"  The  things  on  the  bed  had 
caught  her  eye. 

"Urn— presently." 

"So  soon?  You're  not  asked  to  the  Forsythe's  till  five 
and  it's  not  three  yet." 

"I  could  be  going  somewhere  else  first." 

"Oh— where?" 

"Somewhere  out  of  this  house — that's  the  main  thing. 
Since  the  furnace  was  put  in  it's  like  a  Turkish  bath." 

"You're  going  for  a  walk?"  Lorry  went  to  the  bed  and 
picked  up  the  hat.  It  was  a  new  one  with  a  French 
maker's  name  in  the  crown.  "You  oughtn't  to  hack  this 
hat  about,  Chrystie.  I  wouldn't  wear  it  when  I  went  for 
a  walk." 

"Do  you  think  it  would  be  better  to  wear  it  in  the 
house?  Having  bought  it  I  must  wear  it  somewhere." 

Lorry,  laughing,  put  on  the  hat  and  looked  at  herself 
in  the  glass.  There  was  a  moment's  pause,  then  the  chair 
creaked  under  a  movement  of  Chrystie's,  and  her  voice 
came  very  quiet. 

"Lorry,  do  you  like  Boye  Mayer?" 

Lorry,  studying  the  effect  of  the  hat,  did  not  answer 

184 


Half  Truths  and  Inferences 


with  any  special  interest.  The  Perfect  Nugget  had  lost 
all  novelty  for  her.  He  came  to  the  house  now  and  then, 
was  a  help  in  their  entertainments,  and  was  always  con- 
siderate and  polite — that  was  all. 

"No,  not  much,"  she  murmured. 

"Why  not?" 

"It's  hard  to  say  exactly — just  something."  She 
placed  her  hand  over  a  rakish  green  paradise  plume  to  see 
if  its  elimination  would  be  an  improvement. 

"But  if  you  don't  like  a  person  you  ought  to  have  a 
reason." 

"You  don't  always.  It's  just  a  feeling,  an  instinct  like 
dogs  have.  I've  an  instinct  against  Mr.  Mayer — he's  not 
the  real  thing." 

Chrystie  sat  forward  in  the  chair. 

"That's  exactly  what  I'd  say  he  was,  and  everybody 
else  says  so,  too." 

"On  the  outside — yes,  I  didn't  mean  that.  I  meant 
deep  down.  I  don't  think  he's  real  straight  through — 
it's  all  varnish  and  glitter.  Of  course  I  don't  mind  his 
coming  here  the  way  he  does ;  we  don't  see  him  often  and 
he's  amusing  and  pleasant.  But  I  wouldn't  like  him  to  be 
on  a  friendly  footing.  In  fact  he  never  could  be — I 
wouldn't  let  him." 

It  was  the  voice  of  authority.  Chrystie  felt  its  finality, 
and  guided  by  her  own  inner  distress  and  the  hopeless- 
ness of  revolt,  said  sharply: 

"And  yet  you  wouldn't  mind  Mark  Burrage  being  on  a 
friendly  footing." 

"Mark  Burrage!"  There  was  something  ludicrous  in 
Lorry's  face,  full  of  surprise  under  the  overpowering  hat. 
"What  has  Mark  Burrage  to  do  with  it?" 

Chrystie  climbed  somewhat  lumberingly  out  of  the 
chair.  Her  movements  were  dignified,  her  tone  sarcastic. 

185 


Treasure  and  Trouble  Therewith 

"Oh,  nothing,  nothing.  Only  if  Mr.  Mayer  is  so  far 
below  your  standard  I'm  wondering  where  Mr.  Burrage 
comes  in."  She  stretched  a  long  arm  and  snatched  the 
hat.  "Excuse  me,"  she  said  with  brusque  politeness,  set- 
ting it  on  her  own  head  and  turning  to  the  glass,  "but  I 
really  must  be  going.  Only  a  salamander  could  live  com- 
fortably in  this  house." 

Lorry  was  startled.  Her  sister's  face,  deeply  flushed, 
showed  an  intense  irritation. 

"I  don't  understand  you.  You  can't  make  a  compari- 
son between  those  two  men.  They're  as  different  as  black 
and  white." 

"They  certainly  are,"  said  Chrystie,  driving  a  long  pin 
through  the  hat.  "Or  chalk  and  cheese,  or  brass  and  gold, 
or  whatever  else  stands  for  the  real  thing  and  the  imita- 
tion." 

"What's  the  matter  with  you,  Chrystie?  Are  you 
angry?" 

"Me?"  She  gave  a  glance  from  under  her  lifted  arm. 
"Why  should  I  be  angry?" 

"I  don't  know  but "  An  alarming  thought  seized 

Lorry,  and  she  moved  nearer.  It  was  preposterous,  but 
after  all  girls  took  strange  fancies,  and  Chrystie  was  no 
longer  a  child.  "You  don't  care  for  Boye  Mayer,  do 
you?" 

It  was  the  propitious  moment,  but  Chrystie  was  now 
as  far  from  telling  as  if  she  had  taken  an  oath  of  silence. 
What  Lorry  had  already  said  was  enough,  and  the  tone 
in  which  she  asked  the  question  was  the  finishing  touch. 
If  she  thought  her  sister  had  fallen  in  love  with  Fong, 
she  couldn't  have  appeared  more  shocked  and  incred- 
ulous. 

"Care  for  him?"  said  Chrystie,  pulling  out  the  bureau 
drawer  and  clawing  about  in  it  for  her  gloves.  "Well,  I 

186 


Half  Truths  and  Inferences 


care  for  him  in  some  ways,  and  then  I  don't  care  for  him 
in  other  ways." 

"I  don't  mean  that,  I  mean  really  care." 

"Do  you  mean,  am  I  in  love  with  him?" 

Her  eye  on  Lorry  was  steady  and  questioning,  also 
slightly  scornful.  Lorry  was  abashed  by  it;  she  felt  that 
she  ought  not  to  have  asked,  and  in  confusion  stammered, 
"Yes." 

Chrystie  moved  to  the  bed  and  threw  on  her  furs.  Her 
ill-humor  was  gone,  though  she  was  still  a  little  scornful 
and  rather  grandly  forbearing.  Her  manner  suggested 
that  she  could  condone  this  in  Lorry  owing  to  her  rela- 
tionship and  the  honesty  of  her  intention. 

"Dearest  Lorry,  you  talk  like  an  old  maid  in  a  musical 
comedy.  In  love  with  him?  How  I  wish  I  could  be!  At 
my  age  every  self-respecting  girl  ought  to  be  in  love — 
they  always  are  in  books.  But  try  as  I  will,  I  can't  seem 
to  manage  it.  I  guess  I've  got  a  heart  of  stone  or  per- 
haps it's  been  left  out  of  me  entirely.  Good-by,  the  heart- 
less wonder's  going  for  her  walk." 

She  ended  on  a  laugh,  a  little  strident,  and  crossed  the 
room,  perfume  shaken  from  her  brilliant  clothes.  Out- 
side the  door  she  broke  into  a  song  that  rose  above  her 
scudding  flight  down  the  stairs. 

Lorry's  momentary  uneasiness  died.  Chrystie,  as  a 
woman  of  ruses  and  deceptions,  was  a  thing  she  could  not 
at  this  stage  accept. 

They  met  in  the  plaza  and  saw  the  Greek  Church  and 
then  sat  on  a  bench  under  a  tree  and  talked.  They  were 
so  secure  in  the  little  park's  isolation  that  they  gave  their 
surroundings  no  attention.  That  was  why  a  woman  cross- 
ing it  was  able  to  draw  near,  stand  for  a  watching  mo- 
ment, skirt  the  back  of  their  bench,  and  pass  on  unnoticed. 

187 


Treasure  and  Trouble  Therewith 

She  was  the  same  woman  who  had  seen  them  at  that  earlier 
meeting  in  Union  Square. 

During  that  month  the  new  operetta  at  the  Albion  had 
been  put  on  and  had  fallen  flat.  There  was  a  good  deal 
of  speculation  as  to  the  cause  of  the  failure,  and  it  was 
rumored  that  the  management  set  it  down  to  Miss  Lopez. 
She  had  slighted  her  work  of  late,  been  careless  and  in- 
different. Nobody  knew  what  was  the  matter  with  her. 
She  scorned  the  idea  of  ill  health,  but  she  looked  worn  out 
and  several  times  had  given  vent  to  savage  and  unreason- 
able bursts  of  temper.  She  was  too  valuable  a  woman  to 
quarrel  with,  and  when  the  head  of  the  enterprise  sug- 
gested a  rest — a  week  or  two  in  the  country — she  re- 
jected the  idea  with  an  angry  repudiation  of  illness  or 
fatigue. 

Crowder  was  there  on  the  first  night  and  went  away 
disturbed.  He  had  never  seen  her  give  so  poor  a  perform- 
ance; all  her  fire  was  gone,  she  was  mechanical,  almos 
listless.  Her  public  was  loyal  though  puzzled,  and  th< 
papers  stood  by  her,  but  "What's  happened  to  Pancha 
Lopez?  How  she  has  gone  off!"  was  a  current  phrase 
where  men  and  women  gathered.  Behind  the  scenes  he] 
mates  whispered,  some  jealously  observant,  others  more 
kindly,  concerned  and  wondering.  Gossip  of  a  love  affai] 
was  bandied  about,  but  died  for  lack  of  confirmation.  She 
had  been  seen  with  no  one,  the  methodical  routine  of  hei 
days  remained  unchanged. 

For  her  the  month  had  been  the  most  wretched  of  her 
life.  Never  in  the  hard  past  had  she  passed  through  any 
thing  as  devastating.  Those  trials  she  had  known  how 
to  meet;  this  was  all  new,  finding  her  without  defense 
naked  to  unexpected  attack.  Belief  and  dread  had  alter 
nated  in  her,  ravaged  and  laid  her  waste.  After  the  man 
ner  of  impassioned  women  she  would  not  see,  clung  to 

183 


Half  Truths  and  Inferences 


hope,  had  days,  after  a  letter  or  a  message  from  Mayer, 
when  she  had  almost  ascended  to  the  top  of  the  golden 
.moment  again.  Then  there  was  silence,  a  note  of  hers 
unanswered,  and  she  fell,  sinking  into  darkling  depths. 
Once  or  twice,  waking  in  the  night  or  waiting  for  his 
knock,  she  had  sudden  flashes  of  clear  sight.  These  left 
her  in  a  frozen  stillness,  staring  with  wide  eyes,  fright- 
ened of  herself. 

The  process  of  enlightenment  had  been  gradual.  Mayer 
wanted  no  scenes,  no  annoying  explanations ;  there  was  to 
be  no  violent  moment  of  severance.  To  accomplish  his 
withdrawal  gracefully,  he  put  himself  to  some  trouble. 
After  that  first  letter  he  waylaid  her  at  the  stage  door 
one  night,  and  walked  part  of  the  way  home  with  her. 
He  had  been  kind,  friendly,  brotherly — a  completely 
changed  Mayer.  She  felt  it  and  refused  to  understand, 
walking  at  his  side,  trying  to  be  the  old,  merry  Pancha. 

It  was  at  this  time  that  she  received  her  father's  let- 
ter from  Parleys.  Weeks  had  passed  since  she  had  heard 
from  him,  and  when  she  saw  his  writing  on  the  envelope 
she  realized  that  she  had  almost  forgotten  him.  The 
thought  left  her  cold,  but  when  she  read  the  homely 
phrases  she  was  moved.  In  a  moment  of  extended  vision 
she  saw  the  parents'  tragedy — the  love  that  lives  for  the 
child's  happiness  and  is  powerless  to  create  it.  He  would 
have  died  for  her  and  she  would  have  thrust  him  aside, 
pushed  him  pleading  from  her  path,  to  follow  a  man  a  few 
months  before  a  stranger. 

After  that  she  endured  a  week  without  a  word  from 
Mayer,  and  then,  unable  to  sleep  or  work,  telephoned  to 
his  hotel.  In  answer  to  her  question  the  switchboard  girl 
said  Mr.  Mayer  had  not  been  out  of  town  at  all  for  the 
last  two  weeks.  She  asked  to  speak  with  him  and  heard 
his  voice,  sharp  and  cold.  He  couldn't  talk  freely  over 

189 


Treasure  and  Trouble  Therewith 

the  wire ;  he  would  rather  she  didn't  call  him  up ;  his  out- 
of-town  business  had  been  postponed,  that  was  all. 

"Why  are  you  mad  with  me?"  she  breathed,  trying  to 
make  her  voice  steady. 

"I  am  not,"  came  the  answer.  "Please  don't  be  fanci- 
ful. And  don't  call  me  up  here,  I  don't  like  it.  I'll  be 
around  as  soon  as  I  can,  but  I've  a  lot  to  do,  as  I've  al- 
ready told  you  several  times.  Good-by." 

She  had  sent  the  call  from  a  telephone  booth,  and  care- 
fully, with  a  slow  precision,  she  hung  up  the  receiver.  A 
feeling  of  despair,  a  stifling  anguish,  seized  her  and  she 
began  to  cry.  Shut  into  the  hot,  small  place,  she  broke 
into  rending  sobs,  her  head  bent,  her  hands  gripped, 
rocking  back  and  forth.  Small,  choked  sounds,  whines 
and  cries  came  from  her,  and  fearful  of  being  heard, 
she  pressed  her  hands  against  her  mouth,  looking  up, 
looking  down,  an  animal  distracted  in  its  unfamiliar 
pain. 

The  following  day  he  wrote  to  her,  excused  himself, 
said  he  had  been  worried  on  business  matters  and  sent  her 
flowers.  She  buoyed  herself  up  and  once  more  tried  to 
believe,  but  her  will  had  been  weakened.  From  lower 
layers  of  consciousness  the  truth  was  forcing  its  way  to 
recognition,  yet  she  still  ignored  it.  Realization  of  her 
state  if  she  admitted  it  made  her  afraid  and  her  fight  had 
the  fierceness  of  a  struggle  for  life.  It  was  only  in  the 
night — awake  in  the  dumb  dark — that  she  could  not 
escape  it.  Then,  staring  at  the  pale  square  of  the  window, 
she  heard  her  voice  whispering: 

"What  will  I  do?    What  will  become  of  me?" 

In  all  her  miserable  imaginings  and  self-queries  the 
thought  that  she  had  been  supplanted  had  no  place. 
Mayer  had  often  spoken  to  her  of  his  social  diversions 
and  no  woman  had  ever  figured  in  them.  The  paragraphs 

190 


Half  Truths  and  Inferences 


which  still  appeared  about  him  touched  on  no  feminine 
influences.  It  was  her  fault ;  she  had  been  weighed  in  the 
balance  and  found  wanting.  Had  she  not  always  won- 
dered that  he  should  have  cared  for  her?  On  close 
acquaintance  he  had  found  her  to  be  what  she  was — 
common,  uneducated,  impossible.  At  first  she  had  tried 
to  hide  it  and  then  it  had  come  out  and  he  had  been 
repelled.  It  was  not  till  the  afternoon,  aimlessly  walking 
to  ease  her  pain,  when  she  saw  him  again  with  the  blonde- 
haired  girl,  that  the  thought  of  another  woman  entered 
her  mind. 

That  night  Crowder,  after  watching  the  last  act  from 
the  back  of  the  house,  resolved  to  see  her  and  Cnd  out 
what  was  wrong.  He  had  been  talking  to  the  manager 
in  the  foyer  and  the  man's  sulky  discontent  alarmed  him. 
If  Pancha  didn't  buck  up  she'd  lose  her  job. 

She  was  at  the  dressing  table  in  her  red  kimono  when 
he  came  in.  The  grease  was  nearly  all  off  and  with  her 
front  hair  drawn  back  from  her  forehead,  her  face  had  a 
curiously  bare,  haggard  look.  As  he  entered  she  glanced 
up,  not  smiling,  and  saw  the  knowledge  of  her  failure  in 
his  eyes. 

For  a  moment  she  looked  at  him,  grave  and  sad,  con- 
fessing it.  The  expression  caught  at  his  heart,  and  he 
had  nothing  to  say,  turning  away  from  her  to  look  for  a 
chair. 

She  picked  up  the  rag  and  went  on  wiping  her  face. 

"Well,"  she  said  in  a  brisk  voice,  "I  wasn't  on  the  job 
tonight,  was  I  ?" 

Reassured  by  her  tone,  he  sat  down  and  faced  her. 

"No,  you  weren't.  It  wasn't  a  good  performance, 
Panchita.  I've  always  told  you  the  truth  and  I've  got  to 
go  on  doing  it." 

"Go  ahead,  you're  not  telling  me  anything  I  don't 

191 


Treasure  and  Trouble  Therewith 

know.  I've  got  my  finger  on  the  pulse  of  this  house.  I 
know  every  rise  and  fall  of  its  temperature.  But  I  can't 
always  be  up  in  G,  can  I?" 

"No,  but  you  can't  stay  down  at  zero  too  long." 

"It  was  as  bad  as  that,  was  it?" 

"Yes,  it  was  bad." 

She  dropped  her  hand  to  the  edge  of  the  dressing  table 
and  looked  at  it.  Her  face,  with  the  hair  strained  back, 
the  rouge  gone,  looked  withered  and  yellow.  Crowder 
eyed  it  anxiously. 

"Say,  Panchita,  you're  sick." 

"Sick?    Forget  it!     I  never  was  better  in  my  life." 

"Then  why  are  you  off  your  work — why  do  you  act  as 
if  you  didn't  care?" 

"Can't  I  have  a  part  I  hate  ?  Can't  I  get  weary  of  this 
old  joint  with  its  smoke  and  its  beer?  God!"  She  began 
to  pull  the  pins  out  of  her  hair  and  fling  them  on  the 
dresser.  "I'm  human — I've  got  my  ups  and  downs — and 
you  keep  forgetting  it." 

"That's  just  what  I'm  not  forgetting." 

"Stop  talking  about  me — I'm  sick  of  it,"  she  cried,  and 
snatching  up  the  comb  began  tearing  it  through  her 
hair. 

"It's  nerves,"  said  Crowder.  "Everything  shows  it. 
The  way  you're  combing  your  hair  does." 

"If  you  don't  let  me  alone  I'll  put  you  out — all  of  you 
nagging  and  picking  at  me ;  a  saint  couldn't  stand  it !" 
Crowder  rose,  but  she  whirled  round  on  him,  the  comb 
held  out  in  an  arresting  hand.  "No,  don't  go  yet.  I'll 
give  you  another  chance.  I  want  to  ask  you  something. 
I  saw  a  woman  the  other  day  and  I  want  to  know  who 
she  is — at  least  I  don't  really  want  to  know,  but  she'll  do 
as  well  as  anything  else  to  change  the  subject.  Tall  with 
yellow  sort  of  dolly  hair  and  a  dolly  face.  Dark  purple 

192 


Half  Truths  and  Inferences 


dress  with  black  velvet  edges,  lynx  furs  and  a  curly 
brimmed  hat  with  a  green  paradise  plume  falling  over  one 
side." 

Crowder's  face  wrinkled  with  a  grin. 

"Well,  that's  funny!  You  might  have  asked  me  forty 
others  and  I'd  not  have  known.  But  thanks  to  your 
vivid  description  I  can  tell  you — I  saw  her  yesterday 
afternoon  in  those  very  togs.  It's  the  youngest  Alston 
girl." 

"Who's  she?" 

"One  of  the  two  daughters  of  George  Alston.  They're 
orphans,  live  in  a  big  house  on  Pine  Street.  The  one 
you  saw  was  Chrystie.  What  do  you  want  to  know  about 
her?" 

Pancha,  gathering  her  hair  in  one  hand,  began  to  whisk 
it  round  into  a  knot.  Her  head  was  down  bent. 

"I  don't  know — just  curiosity.  She's  sort  of  stunning 
looking.  Did  you  ever  meet  her?" 

Crowder  smiled. 

"I  know  them  well — have  for  over  a  year.  Awfully 
nice  girls — the  best  kind." 

Pancha  lifted  her  head,  her  face  sharp  with  interest. 

"What's  she  like?" 

He  considered,  the  smile  softened  to  an  amused  indul- 
gence. 

"Oh,  just  a  great  big  baby,  good-natured  and  jolly. 
Everybody  likes  her — you  couldn't  help  it  if  you 
tried.  She's  so  simple  and  sweet,  accepts  the  whole 
world  as  if  it  was  her  friend.  Her  money  hasn't  spoiled 
her  a  bit." 

"Money — she  has  money?" 

"To  burn,  my  dear.     She's  rich." 

Pancha  took  up  a  hand  glass  and  turning  her  back  to 
him  studied  her  profile  in  the  mirror.  It  did  not  occur 

193 


Treasure  and  Trouble  Therewith 

to  Crowder  that  he  never  before  had  seen  her  do  such  a 
thing. 

"Rich,  is  she?"  she  murmured.     "How  rich?" 

"Something  like  four  hundred  thousand  dollars;  her 
father  was  one  of  the  Virginia  City  crowd.  Chrystie's 
just  come  into  her  part  of  the  roll.  Eighteen  years  old 
and  an  heiress — that's  a  good  beginning." 

"Um — must  be  a  queer  feeling.  I  guess  the  men  are 
around  the  honey  thick  as  flies." 

Crowder  screwed  up  his  eyes  considering. 

"No,  they're  not — not  yet  anyhow.  Until  this  winter 
the  girls  lived  so  retired — didn't  know  many  people,  kept 
to  themselves.  Now  they've  broken  out  and  I  suppose  it's 
only  a  matter  of  time  before  the  flies  gather,  and  if  you 
asked  me  I'd  say  they'd  gather  thickest  round  Chrystie. 
She  hasn't  as  much  character  or  brains  as  Lorry,  but 
she's  prettier  and  jollier,  and  after  all  that's  what  most 
men  like." 

"It  certainly  is,  especially  with  four  hundred  thousand 
thrown  in  for  good  measure." 

The  hand  holding  the  glass  dropped  to  her  lap.  She 
sat  still  for  a  moment,  then  without  turning  told  him  to 
go;  she  was  tired  and  wanted  to  get  home.  It  did  not 
even  strike  him  as  odd  that  she  never  looked  at  him,  just 
flapped  a  hand  over  her  shoulder  and  dismissed  him  with 
a  short  "Good-night." 

When  he  had  gone  she  sat  as  he  had  left  her,  the  mirror 
still  in  her  lap.  The  gas  jet  flamed  in  its  wire  cage,  and 
so  silent  was  the  room  that  a  mouse  crept  out  from  behind 
the  baseboard,  spied  about,  then  made  a  scurrying  dart 
across  the  floor.  Her  eye  caught  it,  slid  after  it,  and 
she  moved,  putting  the  glass  carefully  on  the  dresser.  The 
palms  of  her  hands  were  wet  with  perspiration  and  she 
rubbed  them  on  the  skirt  of  her  kimono  and  rose  stiffly, 

194 


Half  Truths  and  Inferences 


resting  for  a  moment  against  the  back  of  her  chair.  She 
had  a  sick  feeling,  a  sensation  as  if  her  heart  were  dis- 
solving, as  if  the  room  looked  unfamiliar  and  much  larger 
than  usual.  When  she  put  on  her  clothes  she  did  it  slowly, 
her  fingers  fumbling  stupidly  at  buttons  and  hooks,  her 
mouth  a  little  open  as  if  breathing  was  difficult. 


CHAPTER  XX 
MARK  PAYS  A  CALL 

MARK  BURRAGE  saw  the  winter  pass  and  only 
went   once   to   the  Alstons   and  then  they  were 
not  at  home.     Pie  had  refused  three  invitations 
to  the  house  and  after  the  ignominous  event  at  the  Albion 
received  no  more.     When  he  allowed  himself  to  think  of 
that  humiliating  evening  he  did  not  wonder. 

But,  outside  of  his  work,  he  allowed  himself  very  little 
thinking.  All  winter  he  had  concentrated  on  his  j  ob  with 
ferocious  energy.  The  older  men  in  the  office  had  a 
noticing  eye  on  him.  "That  fellow  Burrage  has  got  the 
right  stuff  in  him,  he'll  make  good,"  they  said  among 
themselves.  The  younger  ones,  sons  of  rich  fathers  who 
had  squeezed  them  into  places  in  the  big  firm,  regarded 
his  efforts  with  indulgent  surprise.  They  liked  him, 
called  him  "Old  Mark,"  and  were  a  little  patronizing  in 
their  friendliness:  "He  was  just  the  sort  who'd  be  a 
grind.  Those  ranch  chaps  who  had  to  get  up  at  four  in 
the  morning  and  feed  the  'horgs'  were  the  devil  to  work 
when  they  came  down  to  the  city.  Even  law  was  a  cinch 
after  the  'horgs.'  " 

Sometimes  at  night — his  endeavor  relaxed  for  a  pon- 
dering moment — he  studied  the  future.  The  outlook 
might  have  daunted  a  less  resolute  spirit.  A  great  gap 
yawned  between  the  present  and  the  time  when  he  could 
go  to  Lorry  Alston  and  say,  "Let  me  take  care  of  you; 
I  can  do  it  now."  But  he  figured  it  out,  bridged  the  gap, 
knew  what  one  man  had  done  another  man  could  do.  He 

196 


Mark  Pays  a  Call 


reckoned  on  leaving  the  office  next  year  and  setting  up 
for  himself,  and  grim-vis  aged,  mouth  set  to  a  straight  line, 
he  calculated  on  the  chances  of  the  fight.  Its  difficulties 
braced  him  to  new  zeal  and  in  the  strain  and  stress  of  the 
struggle  his  youthful  awkwardness  wore  away,  giving 
place  to  a  youthful  sternness. 

No  one  guessed  his  hopes  and  high  aspiration,  not  even 
his  friend  Crowder.  When  Crowder  rallied  him  about  this 
treatment  of  the  Alstons  he  had  been  short  and  offhand — 
didn't  care  for  society,  hadn't  time  to  waste  going  round 
being  polite.  He  left  upon  Crowder  the  impression  that 
the  Alston  girls  did  not  interest  him  any  more  than  any 
other  girls.  "Old  Mark  isn't  a  lady's  man,"  was  the  way 
Crowder  excused  him  to  Chrystie.  Of  course  Chrystie 
laughed  and  said  she  had  no  illusions  about  that,  but 
whatever  kind  of  a  man  he  was  he  ought  to  take  some 
notice  of  them,  no  matter  how  dull  and  deadly  they  were. 
Crowder,  realizing  his  own  responsibility — it  was  he  who 
had  taken  Mark  to  the  Alston  house — was  kind  but 
firm. 

"It's  up  to  you  to  go  and  see  those  girls.  It's  not  the 
decent  thing  to  drop  out  without  a  reason.  They've  gone 
out  of  their  way  to  be  civil  to  you,  and  you  know,  old 
chap,  they're  ladies" 

Mark  grunted,  and  frowning  as  at  a  disagreeable  duty 
said  he'd  go. 

It  took  him  some  weeks  to  get  there.  Twice  he  started, 
circled  the  house,  and  tramped  off  over  the  hills.  The 
third  time  he  got  as  far  as  the  front  gate,  weakened  and 
turned  away.  After  long  abstinence  the  thought  of  meet- 
ing Lorry's  eyes,  touching  her  hand,  created  a  condition 
of  turmoil  that  made  him  a  coward ;  that,  while  he  longed 
to  enter,  drew  him  back  like  a  sinner  from  the  scene  of 
his  temptation.  Then  an  evening  came  when,  his  jaw  set, 

197 


Treasure  and  Trouble  Therewith 

his  heart  thumping  like  a  steam  piston,  he  put  on  his  best 
blue  serge  suit,  his  new  gray  overcoat,  even  a  pair  of 
mocha  gloves,  and  went  forth  with  a  face  as  hard  as  a 
stone. 

Fong  opened  the  door,  saw  who  it  was  and  broke  into 
a  joyful  grin. 

"Mist  Bullage!  Come  in,  Mist  Bullage.  No  see  you 
for  heap  long  time,  Mist  Bullage." 

"I've  been  busy,"  said  the  visitor.  "Hadn't  much  time 
to  come  around." 

Fong  helped  him  off  with  the  gray  overcoat. 

"You  work  awful  hard,  Mist  Bullage.  Too  hard,  not 
good.  You  come  here  and  have  good  time.  Lots  of  fun 
here  now.  You  come." 

He  moved  to  hang  the  coat  on  the  hatrack,  and,  as  he 
adjusted  it,  turned  and  shot  a  sharp  look  over  his  shoul- 
der at  the  young  man. 

"All  men  who  come  now  not  like  you,  Mist  Bullage." 

There  was  something  of  mystery,  an  odd  suggestion  of 
withheld  meaning,  in  the  old  servant's  manner  that  made 
Mark  smile. 

"How  are  they  different — better  or  worse?" 

Fong  passed  him,  going  to  the  drawing-room  door. 
His  hand  on  the  knob,  he  turned,  his  voice  low,  his  slit 
eyes  craftily  knowing. 

"Ally  samey  not  so  good.  I  take  care  Miss  Lolly  and 
Miss  Clist — I  look  out.  You  all  'ight,  you  come."  He 
threw  open  the  door  with  a  flourish  and  called  in  loud, 
glad  tones,  "Miss  Lolly,  Miss  Clist,  one  velly  good  fliend 
come — Mist  Bullage." 

At  the  end  of  the  long  room  Mark  was  aware  of  a 
small  group  whence  issued  a  murmur  of  talk.  At  his 
name  the  sound  ceased,  there  was  a  rising  of  graceful 
feminine  forms  which  floated  toward  him,  leaving  a  mascu- 

198 


Mark  Pays  a  Call 


line  figure  in  silhouette  against  the  lighted  background  of 
the  dining  room.  He  was  confused  as  he  made  his  greet- 
ings, touched  and  dropped  Lorry's  hand,  tried  to  find  an 
answer  for  Chrystie's  challenging  welcome.  Then  he 
.switched  off  to  Aunt  Ellen  in  her  rocker,  groping  at  knit- 
ting that  was  sliding  off  her  lap,  and  finally  was  intro- 
duced to  the  man  who  stood  waiting,  his  hands  on  the 
back  of  his  chair. 

At  the  first  glance,  while  Lorry's  voice  murmured  their 
names,  Mark  disliked  him.  He  would  have  done  so  even 
if  he  had  not  been  a  guest  at  the  Alstons,  complacently 
it  home  there,  even  if  he  had  not  been  in  evening  dress, 
:orrect  in  every  detail,  even  if  the  hands  resting  on  the 
hair  back  had  not  shown  manicured  nails  that  made  his 
»wn  look  coarse  and  stubby.  The  face  and  each  feature, 
he  high-bridged,  haughty  nose,  the  eyes  cold  and  indolent 
mder  their  long  lids,  the  thin,  close  line  of  the  mouth — 
eparately  and  in  combination — struck  him  as  objection- 
ible  and  repellent.  He  bowed  stiffly,  not  extending  his 
land,  substituting  for  the  Westerner's  "Pleased  to  meet 
u,"  a  gruff  "How  d'ye  do,  Mr.  Mayer." 
Before  the  introduction,  Mayer,  watching  Mark  greet- 
ng  the  girls,  knew  he  had  seen  him  before  but  could  not 
•emember  where.  The  young  man  in  his  neat,  well  fitting 
lothes,  his  country  tan  given  place  to  the  pallor  of  study 
md  late  hours,  was  a  very  different  person  from  the  boy 
n  shirt  sleeves  and  overalls  of  the  ranch  yard.  But  his 
roice  increased  Mayer's  vague  sense  of  former  encounter 
nd  with  it  came  a  faint  feeling  of  disquiet.  Memory 
jonnected  this  fellow  with  something  unpleasant.  As 
ilark  turned  to  him  it  grew  into  uneasiness.  Where 
Before  had  he  met  those  eyes,  dark  blue,  looking  with  an 
nquiring  directness  straight  into  his? 
They  sank  into  chairs,  everyone  except  Aunt  Ellen> 

199 


Treasure  and  Trouble  Therewith 

seized  by  an  inner  discomfort  which  showed  itself  in 
chilled  constraint.    Mayer,  combing  over  his  recollection 
the  teasing  disquiet  increasing  with  every  moment,  wa 
too  disturbed  for  speech.     The  sight  of  Lorry  had  para 
lyzed  what  little  capacity  for  small  talk  Mark  had.     Sh 
looked  changed,  more  unapproachable  than  ever  in  a  ne 
exquisiteness.      It  was   only  a  more  fashionable  way 
doing  her  hair  and  a  becoming  dress,  but  the  young  ma 
saw  it  as  a  growing  splendor,  removing  her  to  still  r 
moter  distances.    She  herself  was  so  nervous  that  she  ke± 
looking  helplessly  at  Chrystie,  hoping  that  that  irrepressi 
ble  being  would  burst  into  her  old-time  sprightliness.    B 
Chrystie  had  her  own  reasons  for  being  oppressed.     T 
presence  of  Mayer,  paying  no  more  attention  to  her  th* 
he  did  to  Aunt  Ellen,  and  the  memory  of  him  making 
to  her  on  park  benches,  gave  her  a  feeling  of  dishonest 
that  weighed  like  lead. 

It  looked  as  if  it  was  going  to  be  a  repetition  of  one 
those  evenings  in  the  past  before  they  had  "known  how  1 
do  things,"  when  Fong  caused  a  diversion  by  appearin 
from  the  dining  room  bearing  a  tray. 

To  regale  evening  visitors  with  refreshments  had  bee 
the  fashion  in  Fong's  youth,  so  in  his  old  age  the  hab 
still  persisted.  He  entered  with  his  friendly  grin  and  s 
the  tray  on  a  table  beside  Lorry.  On  it  stood  decante 
of  red  and  white  wine,  glasses,  a  pyramid  of  fruit  and 
cake  covered  with  varicolored  frosting. 

Nobody  wanted  anything  to  eat,  but  they  turned  t 
the  tray  with  the  eagerness  of  shipwrecked  mariners  t 
an  oyster  bed.  Even  Aunt  Ellen  became  animated,  an 
looking  at  Mark  over  her  glasses  said: 

"Have  you  been  away,  Mr.  Burrage?" 

No,  Mr.  Burrage  had  been  in  town,  very  busy,  and,  th 
hungriest  of  all  the  mariners,  he  turned  to  the  tray  and 

800 


Mark  Pays  a  Call 


helped  Lorry  pour  out  the  wine.  The  ladies  would  take 
none,  so  the  filled  glass  was  held  out  to  Mayer. 

"Claret!"  he  said,  leaning  forward  to  offer  the 
glass. 

As  he  did  so  he  was  aware  of  a  slight,  curious  expres- 
sion in  the  face  he  had  disliked.  The  eyelids  twitched, 
the  upper  lip  drew  down  tight  over  the  teeth,  the  nostrils 
widened.  It  was  a  sudden  contraction  and  then  flexing 
of  the  muscles,  an  involuntary  grimace,  gone  almost  as 
soon  as  it  had  come.  With  murmured  thanks,  Mayer 
stretched  his  hand  and  took  the  wine. 

It  had  all  come  back  with  the  offered  glass.  A  glance 
shot  round  the  little  group  showed  him  that  no  one  had 
noticed ;  they  were  cutting  and  handing  about  the  cake. 
He  refused  a  piece  and  found  his  stiffened  lips  could 
smile,  but  he  was  afraid  of  his  voice,  and  sipped  slowly, 
forcing  the  wine  down  the  contracted  passage  of  his 
throat.  Then  he  stole  a  look  at  Mark,  clumsily  steering 
a  way  between  the  chairs  to  Aunt  Ellen  who  wanted  some 
grapes.  The  fellow  hadn't  guessed — hadn't  the  faintest 
suspicion — it  was  incredible  that  he  should  have.  It  was 
all  right  but — he  raised  his  hand  to  his  cravat,  felt  of  it, 
then  slipped  a  finger  inside  his  collar  and  drew  it  away 
from  his  neck. 

Through  a  blurred  whirl  of  thought  he  could  hear  Aunt 
Ellen's  voice. 

"I've  wanted  to  see  you  for  a  long  time,  Mr.  Burrage. 
You  come  from  that  part  of  the  country  and  I  thought 
you'd  know." 

Then  Mark's  voice: 

"Know  what,  Mrs.  Tisdale?" 

"About  that  Knapp  man's  story.  Didn't  you  tell  us 
your  ranch  was  up  near  the  tules  where  those  bandits 
buried  the  gold?" 


Treasure  and  Trouble  Therewith 

Lorry  explained. 

"Aunt  Ellen's  been  so  excited  about  that  story,  she 
couldn't  talk  of  anything  else." 

"And  why  not?"  said  Aunt  Ellen.  "It's  a  very  un- 
usual performance.  Two  sets  of  thieves,  one  stealing 
the  money  and  burying  it  and  another  coming  along  and 
finding  it." 

Chrystie,  diverted  from  her  private  worries  by  this  ex- 
citing subject,  bounced  round  toward  Mark  with  some- 
thing of  her  old  explosiveness. 

"Why,  you  were  up  there  at  the  time — the  first  time 
I  mean.  Don't  you  remember  you  told  us  that  evening 
when  you  were  here.  And  you  said  people  thought  the 
bandits  had  a  cache  in  the  chaparral.  Why  didn't  any 
of  you  think  of  the  tules  ?" 

"Stupid,  I  guess,"  said  Mark.  "Not  a  soul  thought  of 
them.  And  it  was  an  Al  hiding-place.  Besides  the  duck 
shooters,  nobody  ever  goes  there." 

"But  somebody  did  go  there,"  came  from  Aunt  Ellen 
with  a  knowing  nod. 

They  laughed  at  that,  even  Mr.  Mayer,  who  appeared 
only  languidly  interested,  his  eyes  on  the  film  of  wine  in 
the  bottom  of  his  glass. 

"Who  do  you  suppose  it  could  have  been?"  asked 
Chrystie. 

"A  duck  shooter,  probably."  This  was  Mr.  Mayer's 
first  contribution  to  the  subject. 

Mark  was  exceedingly  pleased  to  be  able  to  correct  this 
silent  and  supercilious  person. 

"No,  it  couldn't  have  been.  The  duck  season  doesn't 
open  till  September  fifteen,  and  Knapp  said  when  they 
went  back  in  six  days  the  cache  was  empty."  He  turned 
to  Chrystie.  "I've  often  wondered  if  it  could  have  been 
a  man  I  saw  that  afternoon." 

202 


Mark  Pays  a  Call 


As  on  that  earlier  visit  his  knowledge  of  the  holdup  had 
made  him  an  attractive  center,  so  once  again  he  saw  the 
girls  turn  expectant  eyes  on  him,  Aunt  Ellen  forget  her 
grapes,  and  even  the  strange  man's  glance  shift  from  the 
wineglass  and  rest,  attentive,  on  his  face. 

"It  was  a  tramp.  He  stopped  late  that  afternoon  at 
my  father's  ranch  which  gives  on  the  road  and  asked  for 
a  drink  of  water.  I  gave  it  to  him  and  watched  him  go 
off  in  the  direction  of  the  trail  that  leads  to  the  tules. 
Of  course  it  would  have  been  an  unusual  thing  for  him  to 
have  tried  to  get  across  them,  but  he  might  have  done  it 
and  stumbled  on  the  cache." 

"Could  he  have — isn't  it  all  water?"  Lorry  asked. 

"There's  a  good  deal  of  solid  land  and  here  and  there 
planks  laid  across  the  deeper  streams.  There  is  a  sort 
of  trail  if  you  happen  to  know  it  and  a  tramp  might. 
It's  part  of  his  business  to  be  familiar  with  the  short  cuts 
and  easiest  ways  round." 

"What  was  he  like?"  said  Chrystie. 

"A  miserable  looking  fellow — most  of  them  are — all 
brown  and  dusty  with  a  straggly  beard.  There  was  one 
thing  about  him  that  I  noticed,  his  voice.  It  was  like  an 
educated  man's — a  sort  of  echo  of  better  days." 

Aunt  Ellen  found  this  very  absorbing  and  she  and 
Chrystie  had  questions  to  ask.  Fong's  entrance  for  the 
tray  prevented  Lorry  from  joining  in.  As  the  Chinaman 
leaned  down  to  take  it,  she  whispered  to  him  to  open  a 
window,  the  room  was  hot.  Her  eye,  touching  Mr.  Mayer, 
had  noticed  that  he  had  drawn  out  his  handkerchief  and 
wiped  his  forehead  which  shone  with  a  thin  beading  of 
perspiration.  No  one  heard  the  order,  and  Fong,  after 
opening  the  window,  carried  the  tray  into  the  dining  room 
and  left  it  on  the  table.  When  Lorry  turned  to  the 
others,  Mark  had  proved  to  Aunt  Ellen  that  the  gentle- 

203 


Treasure  and  Trouble  Therewith 

man  tramp  was  a  recognized  variety  of  the  species,  and 
Chrystie  had  taken  up  the  thread. 

"Did  your  people  up  there  know  anything  about  him? 
Did  they  think  he  was  the  man?" 

"None  of  them  saw  him.  After  Knapp's  story  came 
out  I  wrote  up  and  asked  them  but  no  one  round  there 
remembered  him." 

"Would  you  know  him  again  if  you  saw  him?" 

"If  I  saw  him  in  the  same  clothes  I  would,  but" — 
he  smiled  into  Chrystie's  eager  face — "I'm  not  likely  to 
do  that.  If  it's  he,  he's  got  twelve  thousand  dollars 
and  I  guess  he's  spent  some  of  it  on  a  shave  and  a  new 
suit." 

Here  Mr.  Mayer,  moving  softly,  turned  to  where  the 
tray  had  stood.  It  was  gone,  and,  gracefully  apologetic, 
he  rose — he  wanted  to  put  down  his  glass  and  get  a  drink 
of  water.  His  exit  from  the  group  put  a  temporary  stop 
to  the  conversation,  chairs  were  in  the  way,  and  Aunt 
Ellen  let  her  grapes  fall  on  the  floor.  Mark,  scrabbling 
for  them,  saw  Lorry  rise  and  press  an  electric  bell  on 
the  wall;  she  had  remembered  there  was  no  water  on  the 
tray.  Mayer,  moving  to  the  dining  room,  did  not  see 
her,  and  called  back  over  his  shoulder: 

"Your  American  rooms  are  a  little  too  warm  for  a 
person  used  to  the  cold  storage  atmosphere  of  houses 
abroad." 

He  said  it  well,  better  than  he  thought  he  could,  for  he 
was  stifled  by  a  sudden  loud  pounding  of  his  heart.  To 
hide  his  face  and  steady  himself  with  a  draught  of  wine 
was  what  he  wanted.  A  moment  alone,  a  moment  to  get 
a  grip  on  his  nerves,  would  be  enough.  With  his  back 
toward  them  he  leaned  against  the  table  and  lifted  a 
decanter  in  his  shaking  hand.  As  he  did  so,  Fong  entered 
through  a  door  just  opposite. 

204 


Mark  Pays  a  Call 


"Water  for  Mr.  Mayer,  Fong,"  came  Lorry's  voice 
from  the  room  beyond. 

The  voice  and  Fong's  appearance,  coming  simultane- 
ously, abrupt  and  unexpected,  made  Mayer  give  a  violent 
start.  His  hand  jerked  upward,  sending  the  wine  in  a 
scattering  spray  over  the  cloth.  Fong  made  no  move 
for  the  water,  but  stood  looking  from  the  crimson  stain 
to  the  man's  face. 

"You  sick,  Mist  Mayer?"  he  said. 

The  strained  tension  snapped.  With  an  eye  of  steel- 
cold  fury  on  the  servant  the  man  broke  into  a  low,  almost 
whispered,  cursing.  The  words  ran  out  of  his  mouth, 
fluent,  rapid,  in  an  unpremeditated  rush.  They  were  as 
picturesque  and  malignantly  savage  as  those  with  which 
he  had  cursed  the  tules ;  and  suddenly  they  stopped, 
checked  by  the  Chinaman's  expression.  It  was  neither 
angry  nor  alarmed,  but  intently  observant,  the  eyes  un- 
blinking— an  imperturbable,  sphinx-like  face  against 
which  the  flood  of  rage  broke,  leaving  no  mark. 

Mayer  took  up  the  half-filled  glass  and  drained  it,  the 
servant  watching  him  with  the  same  quiet  scrutiny.  He 
longed  to  plant  his  fist  in  the  middle  of  that  unrevealing 
mask,  but  instead  tried  to  laugh,  muttered  an  explanation 
about  feeling  ill,  and  slid  a  five-dollar  gold  piece  across 
the  table. 

To  his  intense  relief  Fong  picked  it  up,  dropped  it  into 
the  pocket  of  his  blouse,  and  without  a  word  turned  and 
left  the  room. 

No  one  had  noticed  the  little  scene.  When  Mayer 
came  back  the  group  was  on  its  feet,  Mark  having  made 
a  move  to  go. 

There  were  handshakes  and  good-nights,  and  Burrage 
and  Lorry  moved  forward  up  the  long  room.  Aunt  Ellen 
took  the  opportunity  of  slipping  through  a  side  door 

205 


Treasure  and  Trouble  Therewith 

that  led  to  the  hall,  and  Chrystie  and  her  lover  faced  each 
other  among  the  empty  chairs. 

With  his  eye  on  the  receding  backs  of  the  other  couple, 
Mayer  said,  hardly  moving  his  lips : 

"When  can  I  see  you  again?  Tomorrow  at  the  Greek 
Church  at  four?" 

She  demurred  as  she  constantly  did.  At  each  station 
in  the  clandestine  courtship  he  had  the  same  struggle 
with  the  same  faltering  uncertainty.  But,  after  tonight, 
the  time  for  humoring  her  moods  was  past.  What  he 
had  endured  during  the  last  hour  showed  in  a  haggard 
intensity  of  expression,  a  subdued,  fierce  urgence  of  man- 
ner. Chrystie  looked  at  him  and  looked  away,  almost 
afraid  of  him.  He  was  staring  at  her  with  an  avid  wait- 
ing as  if  ready  to  drag  the  answer  out  of  her  lips.  She 
fluttered  like  a  bird  under  the  snake's  hypnotic  eye. 

"I  can't,"  she  whispered;  "I'm  going  out  with  Lorry." 

"Then  when?' 

"Oh,  Boye,  I  don't  know — I  have  so  many  things  to 
do." 

He  had  difficulty  in  pinning  her  down  to  a  date,  but 
finally  succeeded — five  days  off.  In  his  low-toned  in- 
sistence he  used  a  lover's  language,  terms  of  endearment, 
tender  phrases,  but  her  timorous  reluctance  roused  a 
passion  of  rage  in  him.  He  would  have  liked  to  shake 
her;  he  would  have  liked  to  swear  at  her  as  he  had  at 
Fong. 


CHAPTER  XXI 
A  WOMAN  SCORNED 

AFTER  the  conversation  with  Crowder,  Pancha  was 
very  quiet  for  several  days.     She  spoke  only  the 
necessary  word,  came  and  went  with  feline  soft- 
ness,   performed    her    duties    with    the    precision    of    a 
mechanism.     Her  stillness  had  a  curious  quality  of  de- 
tachment; she  seemed  held  in  a  spell,  her  eye,  suddenly 
encountered,  blank  and  vacant;  even  her  voice  was  tone- 
less.    She  reacted  to  nothing  that  went  on  around  her. 

All  her  vitality  had  withdrawn  to  feed  the  inner  flame. 
Under  that  dead  exterior  fires  blazed  so  high  and  hot 
that  the  shell  containing  them  was  empty  of  all  else. 
They  had  burned  away  pride  and  reason  and  conscience; 
they  were  burning  to  explosive  outbreak.  The  girl  had 
no  consciousness  of  it;  she  only  felt  their  torment  and 
with  the  last  remnant  of  her  will  tried  to  hide  her  anguish. 
Then  came  a  day  when  the  shell  cracked  and  the  fires 
burst  through. 

Unable  to  bear  her  own  thoughts,  weakened  by  two 
sleepless  nights,  she  telephoned  to  the  Argonaut  Hotel 
and  said  she  wanted  to  speak  to  Mr.  Mayer.  The  switch- 
board girl  answered  that  he  was  in  and  asked  for  her 
name.  On  Pancha's  refusal  to  give  it,  the  girl  had 
crisply  replied  that  Mr.  Mayer  had  left  orders  no  one 
was  to  speak  with  him  unless  he  knew  the  name.  Pancha 
gave  it  and  waited.  Presently  the  answer  came — "Very 
sorry,  Mr.  Mayer  doesn't  seem  to  be  there — thought  he 
was  in,  but  I  guess  I  was  wrong." 

207 


Treasure  and  Trouble  Therewith 

This  falsehood,  contemptuously  transparent,  act  of 
final  dismissal,  was  the  blow  that  broke  the  shell  and  let 
the  fire  loose.  Such  shreds  of  pride  and  self-respect  as 
remained  to  the  wretched  girl  were  shriveled.  She  put 
on  her  hat  and  coat,  and  tying  a  thick  veil  over  her  face, 
went  across  town  to  the  Argonaut  Hotel. 

It  was  the  day  after  Mayer  had  met  Mark  at  the  Al- 
stons'. He  too  had  not  slept,  had  had  a  horrible,  harass- 
ing night.  All  day  he  had  sat  in  his  rooms  going  over 
the  scene,  recalling  the  young  man's  face,  assuring  himself 
of  its  unconsciousness.  But  he  was  upset,  jarred,  his 
security  gone.  Luxury  had  corroded  his  already  wasted 
and  overdrawn  forces ;  the  habits  of  idleness  weakened  his 
power  to  resist.  One  fact  stood  out  in  his  mind — he 
must  carry  the  courtship  with  Chrystie  to  its  conclusion, 
and  arrange  for  their  elopement.  Sprawled  in  the  arm- 
chair or  pacing  off  the  space  from  the  bedroom  door  to 
the  window  he  planned  it.  One  or  two  more  interviews 
with  her  would  bring  her  to  the  point  of  consent,  then 
they  would  slip  away  to  Nevada ;  he  would  marry  her  there 
and  they  would  go  on  to  New  York.  It  ought  not  to  take 
more  than  a  week,  at  the  longest  ten  days.  If  he  had 
had  any  other  woman  to  deal  with — not  this  spiritless 
fool  of  a  girl — he  could  manage  it  in  a  much  shorter 
time.  All  he  had  to  do  was  to  make  a  last  trip  to  Sacra- 
mento and  get  what  was  left  of  the  money  and  that  could 
be  done  in  a  day. 

A  knock  at  the  door  made  him  start.  Any  sound  would 
have  made  him  start  in  the  state  he  was  in,  and  a  knock 
called  up  nightmare  visions  of  Burrage,  police  officers, 
Lorry  Alston — there  was  no  end  to  his  alarms.  Then  he 
reassured  himself — a  package  or  the  room  boy  with 
towels — and  called  out  "Come  in." 

At  the  first  glance  he  did  not  know  who  it  was.  Like 

208 


A  Woman  Scorned 


a  woman  in  a  novel  a  female,  closely  veiled,  entered  with- 
out greeting  and  closed  the  door.  When  she  raised  the 
veil  and  he  saw  it  was  Pancha  Lopez  he  was  at  once 
relieved  and  exasperated.  Her  manner  did  not  tend  to 
remove  his  irritation.  Leaning  against  the  table,  her 
face  very  white,  she  looked  at  him  without  speaking.  Had 
not  the  sight  of  her  just  then  been  extremely  unwelcome, 
the  melodrama  of  the  whole  thing — the  veil,  the  pallid 
face,  the  dramatic  silence — would  have  amused  him.  As 
it  was  he  looked  anything  but  amused,  rising  from  the 
armchair,  his  brows  drawn  together  in  an  ugly  frown. 

"What  on  earth  brings  you  here?"  was  his  greeting. 

"You,"  she  answered. 

Her  voice,  husky  and  breathless,  matched  the  rest  of 
the  crazy  performance.  He  saw  an  impending  scene,  and 
under  his  anger  had  a  feeling  of  grievance.  This  was 
more  than  he  deserved.  He  gave  her  an  ironical  bow. 

"That's  very  flattering,  I'm  sure,  and  I'm  highly  hon- 
ored. But,  my  dear  Pancha,  pardon  me  if  I  say  I  don't 
like  it.  It's  not  my  custom  to  see  ladies  up  here." 

"Don't  talk  like  that  to  me,  Boye,"  she  said,  the  huski- 
ness  of  her  tone  deepening.  "Don't  put  on  style  and  act 
like  you  didn't  know  me.  We're  past  that." 

He  shrugged. 

"Answer  for  yourself,  Pancha.  Believe  me,  I'm  not  at 
all  past  conforming  to  the  usages  of  civilized  people." 
He  had  moved  back  to  the  fireplace,  and  leaning  against 
the  mantel  waited  for  her  to  reply.  As  she  did  not  do 
so,  he  said,  "Let  me  repeat,  I  don't  like  your  coming 
here." 

Her  eyes,  level  and  fixed,  were  disconcerting.  To  avoid 
them  he  turned  to  the  mantel  and  took  up  a  cigarette 
and  matches  lying  there. 

"Then  why  don't  you  come  to  see  me?"  she  said. 

209 


Treasure  and  Trouble  Therewith 

"Teh — Teh !"  He  put  the  cigarette  between  his  teeth 
and  struck  the  match  on  the  shelf.  "Haven't  I  told  you 
I'm  busy?" 

"Yes,  you've  told  me  that." 

"Well?" 

"You've  told  me  lies." 

"Thank  you."     He  was  occupied  lighting  the  cigarette. 

"Why,  when  I  telephoned  an  hour  ago  and  gave  my 
name,  did  you  say  you  were  out?" 

He  affected  an  air  of  forbearance. 

"Because  I  happened  to  be  out." 

"Boye,  that's  another  lie." 

He  threw  the  match  into  the  fireplace  and  turned  his 
eyes  on  her  full  of  a  steely  dislike. 

"Look  here,  Pancha.  You've  bothered  me  a  lot  lately, 
calling  me  up,  nagging  at  me  about  things  I  couldn't 
help.  I'm  not  the  kind  of  man  that  likes  that;  I'm  not 
the  kind  that  stands  it.  I've  been  a  friend  of  yours  and 
hope  to  stay  so,  but " 

She  cut  him  off,  her  voice  trembling  with  passion. 

"Friend — you  a  friend!  You  who  do  nothing  but  put 
me  off  with  lies — who  are  trying  to  shake  me,  throw  me 
away  like  an  old  shoe!" 

Her  restraint  was  gone.  With  her  shoulders  raised 
and  her  chin  thrust  forward,  the  thing  she  had  been,  and 
still  was — child  of  the  lower  depths,  bred  in  its  ways — 
was  revealed  to  him.  It  made  him  afraid  of  her,  seeing 
possibilities  he  had  not  grasped  before.  What  he  had 
thought  to  be  harmless  and  powerless  might  become  one 
more  menacing  element  in  the  dangers  that  surrounded 
him.  His  natural  caution  put  a  check  upon  his  anger. 
He  tried  to  speak  with  a  soothing  good  humor. 

"Now,  my  dear  girl,  don't  talk  like  that.  It's  not  true 
in  the  first  place,  it's  stupid  in  the  second,  and  in  the 

210 


A  Woman  Scorned 


third  it  only  tends  to  make  bad  feeling  between  us  that 
there's  no  cause  for." 

"Oh,  yes,  there's  cause,  lots  of  cause." 

He  found  her  steady  eyes  more  discomfiting  than  ever, 
and  looking  at  his  cigarette  said: 

"Panchita,  you're  not  yourself.  You're  overworked 
and  overwrought,  imagining  things  that  don't  exist.  In- 
stead of  standing  there  slanging  me  you  ought  to  go 
home  and  take  a  rest." 

She  paid  no  attention  to  this  suggestion,  but  suddenly, 
moving  nearer,  said: 

"What  did  you  do  it  for,  Boye?" 

"Do  what?" 

"Make  love  to  me — make  me  think  you  loved  me.  Why 
did  you  come?  Why  did  you  say  what  you  did?  Why 
did  you  kiss  me?  Why,  when  you  saw  the  way  I  felt,  did 
you  keep  on?  What  good  was  it  to  you?" 

To  gain  a  moment's  time,  and  to  hide  his  face  from 
her  haggard  gaze,  he  turned  and  put  the  cigarette  care- 
fully on  the  stand  of  the  matchsafe.  He  found  it  difficult 
to  keep  the  soothing  note  in  his  voice. 

"Why — why — why?  I  don't  see  any  need  for  these 
questions?  What  did  I  do?  A  kiss!  What's  that?  And 
you  talk  as  if  I'd  ceased  to  care  for  you.  Of  course  I 
laven't.  I  always  will.  I  don't  know  anyone  I  think 
-nore  of  than  I  do  of  you.  That's  why  I  want  you  to  go. 
iTou  don't  look  well,  and  as  I  told  you  before,  it's  not  the 
right  thing  for  you  to  be  here." 

She  was  beside  him  and  he  laid  his  hand  on  her  arm, 
gentle  and  persuasive.  She  snatched  the  arm  away,  and 
vith  a  small,  feeble  fist  struck  him  in  the  chest  and  gasped 
>ut  an  epithet  of  the  people. 

For  a  still  moment  they  stood  looking  at  one  another. 
3oth  faces  showed  that  bitterest  of  antagonisms — the  hate 

211 


Treasure  and  Trouble  Therewith 

of  one-time  lovers.  She  saw  it  in  his  and  it  increased  her 
desperation,  he  in  her's,  and  in  the  uprush  of  his  anger 
he  forgot  his  fear.  She  spoke  first,  her  voice  low,  her 
breathing  loud  on  the  room's  stillness. 

"You  could  fool  me  once,  but  it's  too  late  now.  There's 
no  coming  over  me  any  more  with  soft  talk." 

"Then  I'll  not  try  it.  Take  it  from  me  straight.  I've 
come  to  the  end  of  my  patience.  I've  had  enough  of  you 
and  your  exactions." 

"Oh,  you  needn't  tell  me  that"  she  cried.  "I  know  it, 
and  I  know  why.  I  know  the  secret  of  your  change  of 
heart,  Mr.  Boye  Mayer." 

She  saw  the  alarm  in  his  face,  the  sudden  arrested 
attention. 

"What  are  you  talking  about?"  he  said,  too  startled 
to  feign  indifference. 

"Oh,  you  thought  no  one  was  on,"  she  cried,  backing 
away  from  him,  "but  /  was.  I've  been  for  the  past  month. 
Four  hundred  thousand  dollars!  Think  of  it,  Boye! 
You're  getting  on  in  the  world.  Some  difference  between 
that  and  an  actress  at  the  Albion." 

If  Pancha  had  still  cherished  a  hope  that  she  might 
have  been  mistaken,  the  sight  of  Mayer's  rage  would  have 
extinguished  it.  He  made  a  step  toward  her,  hard-eyed, 
pale  as  she  was. 

"You're  mad.  That's  what's  the  matter  with  you.  I 
might  have  known  it  when  you  came.  Now  go — I  don't 
want  any  lunatics  here." 

She  stood  her  ground  and  tried  to  laugh,  a  horrible 
sound. 

"You  don't  even  like  me  to  know  that.  Won't  even 
share  a  secret  with  me — me,  the  friend  that  you  care  for 
so  much." 

"Go !"  he  thundered  and  pointed  to  the  door. 


A  Woman  Scorned 


"Not  till  I  hear  more,  I'm  curious.  Is  it  just  the 
money,  or  would  you  like  the  lady  even  if  she  hadn't  any  ?" 

Exasperated  beyond  reason  he  made  a  pounce  at  her 
and  caught  her  by  the  arm.  This  time  his  grasp  was 
too  strong  for  her  to  shake  off.  His  fingers  closed  on 
the  slender  stem  and  closing  shook  it. 

"Since  you  won't  go,  I'll  have  to  help  you,"  he  breathed 
in  his  fury. 

She  squirmed  in  his  grip,  trying  to  pull  his  fingers 
away  with  her  free  hand,  and  in  this  humiliating  fashion 
felt  herself  drawn  toward  the  door.  It  was  the  last  con- 
summate insult,  his  superior  strength  triumphing.  If  he 
had  loosed  her  she  would  have  gone,  but  anything  he  did 
she  was  bound  to  resist,  most  of  all  his  hand  upon  her. 
That,  once  the  completest  comfort,  was  now  the  crown- 
ing ignominy. 

As  he  pushed  her,  short  sentences  of  savage  hostility 
flashed  between  them,  sparks  struck  from  a  mutual  hate. 
Hers  betrayed  the  rude  beginnings  she  had  tried  to  hide, 
his  the  falseness  of  his  surface  finish.  It  was  as  if  for 
the  first  time  they  had  established  a  real  understanding. 
At  grips,  filled  with  fury,  they  attained  a  sudden  inti- 
macy, the  hidden  self  of  each  at  last  plain  to  the  other. 

The  scene  was  interrupted  in  an  unexpected  and  ridicu- 
lous manner — the  telephone  rang.  As  the  bell  whirred 
he  stopped  irresolute,  his  fingers  tight  on  her  arm.  Then, 
as  it  rang  again,  he  looked  at  her  with  a  sort  of  enraged 
helplessness,  and  made  a  movement  to  draw  her  to  the 
phone.  An  outsider  would  have  laughed,  but  the  two 
protagonists  were  beyond  comedy,  and  glared  at  one 
another  in  dumb  defiance.  Finally,  the  bell  filling  the 
room  with  its  clamor,  there  was  nothing  for  it  but  to 
answer.  With  grim  lips  and  a  murderous  eye  on  his 
opponent,  Mayer  dropped  her  arm,  and  going  to  the 


Treasure  and  Trouble  Therewith 

phone,  took  down  the  receiver.  From  the  other  end, 
plaintive  and  apologetic,  came  Chrystie's  voice. 

Pancha  retreated  to  the  door,  opened  it  and  came  to 
a  halt  on  the  sill.  Out  of  the  corner  of  his  eye  he  was 
aware  of  her  watching  him,  a  baleful  figure.  He  feared 
to  employ  the  tenderness  of  tone  necessary  in  his  con- 
versations with  Chrystie,  and  as  he  listened  and  made 
out  that  she  wanted  to  break  her  next  engagement,  he 
turned  and  fastened  a  gorgon's  glance  on  the  woman  in 
the  doorway,  jerking  his  head  in  a  gesture  of  dismissal. 

She  answered  it  with  ominous  quiet,  "When  I've  fin- 
ished. I've  just  one  more  thing  to  say." 

In  desperation  he  turned  to  the  mouthpiece  and  said 
as  softly  as  he  dared: 

"Wait  a  minute.  The  window's  open  and  I  can't  hear. 
I  must  shut  it,"  then  put  the  receiver  against  his  chest 
and  muttered: 

"Do  you  want  me  to  kill  you?" 

"Not  yet — after  I  get  square  you  can.  I  won't  care 
then  what  you  do.  But  I've  got  to  get  square  and  I'm 
going  to.  There's  Indian  in  me  and  that's  the  blood  that 
doesn't  forget.  And  there's  something  else  you  don't 
know — yes,  there  was  something  I  never  told  you.  I've 
someone  to  fight  my  fights  and  hit  my  enemies,  and  if  I 
can't  get  you,  they  can.  Watch  out  and  see." 

She  retreated,  closing  the  door.  Mayer  had  to  resume 
his  conversation  with  the  blood  drumming  in  his  ears, 
uplift  Chrystie's  flagging  spirit,  and  shift  their  engage- 
ment to  another  day.  When  it  was  over  he  fell  on  the 
sofa,  limp  and  exhausted.  He  lay  there  till  dinner  time, 
thinking  over  what  Pancha  had  said,  and  what  she  could 
do,  assuring  himself  it  was  only  bluff,  the  impotent 
threatenings  of  a  discarded  woman.  He  felt  certain  that 
the  champion  she  had  alluded  to  was  her  one-time  admirer, 


A  Woman  Scorned 


the  bandit.  This  being  the  case,  there  was  nothing  to  be 
feared  from  him,  in  hiding  in  the  wilderness.  It  would 
be  many  a  day  before  he'd  venture  forth.  But  the  girl 
herself,  full  of  venom,  burning  with  the  sense  of  her 
wrongs,  was  a  new  factor  in  the  perils  of  his  position. 
Stronger  now  than  ever  was  this  conviction  that  he  must 
hurry  his  schemes  to  their  climax. 


CHAPTER  XXII 
THEREBY  HANGS  A  TALE 


THAT  same  evening  the  audience  at  the  Albion  had 
a  disappointment.     At  half  past  eight  the  man- 
ager appeared  before  the  curtain  and  said  thai 
Miss  Lopez  was  ill  and  could  not  appear.     As  they  all 
knew,  she   had  been   an   unremitting  worker,  had   given 
them  of  her  best,  and  in  her  love  of  her  art  and  her  public 
had  worn  herself  out  and  suffered  a  nervous  breakdown. 
A  week  or  two  of  rest  would  restore  her,  and  meantime 
her  place  would  be  taken  by  Miss  Lottie  Vere. 

The  audience,  not  knowing  what  was  expected  of  them, 
applauded  and  then  looked  at  one  another  in  aggrieved 
surprise.     They  felt  rather  peevish,  for  they  had  come 
to  regard  Pancha  Lopez  as  a  permanent  institution  de 
vised  for  their  amusement.     They  no  more  expected  he 
to  fail  them  than  the  clock  in  the  Ferry  Tower  to 
wrong.     Charlie  Crowder  heard  it  at  the  Despatch  offic 
next  morning  —  Mrs.  Wesson,  who  picked  up  local  new 
like  a  wireless,  met  him  on  the  stairs  and  told  him. 

"I'm  glad  she's  given  in  at  last,"  said  the  good-natured 
society  reporter.  "She's  been  running  down  hill  for  the 
past  month,  and  if  she'd  kept  on  much  longer  she'd  have 
run  to  the  place  where  you  jump  off." 

That  afternoon  Crowder  went  round  to  see  her.  There 
was  no  use  phoning,  the  Vallejo  was  still  in  that  archaic 
stage  where  the  only  telephone  was  in  the  lower  hall  and 
guests  were  called  to  it  by  the  clerk.  Besides,  you  never 
could  tell  about  a  girl  like  Pancha  ;  she  was  half  a  savage, 


Thereby  Hangs  a  Tale 


liable  to  lie  curled  up  in  a  corner  and  never  think  of  a 
doctor. 

He  found  her  on  the  sofa  in  her  sitting-room,  a  box 
of  crackers  and  a  bottle  of  milk  on  the  table,  a  ragged 
Navajo  blanket  over  her  feet.  When  she  saw  who  it  was 
she  sat  up  with  a  cry  of  welcome,  her  wrapper  falling 
loose  from  her  brown  neck.  She  looked  very  ill,  her  eyes 
dark-circled  and  sunken  in  her  wasted  face. 

He  sat  beside  her  on  the  sofa's  edge — she  was  so  thin 
there  was  plenty  of  room — and  taking  her  hand  held  it 
while  he  tried  to  hide  the  concern  that  seized  him.  After 
the  first  sentence  of  greeting  she  fell  back  on  the  crumpled 
pillow,  and  lay  still,  the  little  flicker  of  animation  dying 
out. 

"Well,  well,  Panchita,"  he  said,  patting  her  hand,  a 
kindly  awkward  figure  hunched  up  in  his  big  overcoat; 
"this  is  something  new  for  you." 

She  made  an  agreeing  movement  with  her  head,  her 
glance  resting  where  it  fell,  too  languid  to  move. 

"I  seem  to  be  all  in,"  she  murmured. 

"Just  played  out?" 

"Looks  that  way." 

"I  didn't  know  till  this  morning — Mrs.  Wesson  told 
me.  How  did  it  happen?" 

"I  don't  know,  I  got  all  weak.     It  was  last  night." 

"At  the  theater?" 

"No,  here,  in  my  room.  I  kept  feeling  worse  and  worse, 
but  I  thought  I  could  pull  through.  And  then  I  knew 
I  couldn't  and  I  got  down  to  the  phone  some  way  and 
told  them.  And  then  I  came  back  here  and — I  don't 
know — I  sort  of  broke  to  pieces." 

As  she  completed  the  sentence  tears  suddenly  welled 
into  her  eyes  and  began  to  run,  unchecked,  in  shining 
drops  down  her  cheeks.  She  drew  her  hand  from 

217 


Treasure  and  Trouble  Therewith 

Crowder's  and  turning  on  her  side  placed  it  and  its  fellow 
over  her  face  and  wept,  a  river  of  tears  that  came  softly 
without  sobs.  Crowder  was  overwhelmed.  He  had  never 
thought  his  friend  could  be  so  broken,  never  had  imagined 
her  weak  as  other  women,  bereft  of  her  gallant  pride. 

"Oh,  Pancha,"  he  said,  unutterably  distressed,  "you 
poor  girl!  I'm  so  sorry,  I'm  so  awfully  sorry."  He 
crooned  over  her  in  his  rough  man's  tenderness,  stroking 
her  hair.  "You've  worked  yourself  to  the  bone.  You 
ought  to  have  given  in  sooner,  you've  kept  it  up  too  long." 

Her  voice  came  smothered  through  the  shielding  hands : 

"It's  not  that,  Charlie,  it's  not  that." 

This  surprised  him  exceedingly.  That  any  other  cause 
than  overwork  could  so  reduce  her  had  never  occurred  to 
him.  Had  she  some  ailment — some  hidden  suffering — 
preying  on  her?  He  thought  of  the  Indian's  stoicism  and 
was  filled  with  apprehension. 

"Well,  then,  what  is  it?"  he  asked.     "Are  you  ill?" 

She  moved  her  head  in  silent  negation. 

"But  if  it  isn't  work,  it  must  be  something.  A  girl 
as  strong  as  you  doesn't  collapse  without  a  reason." 

She  dropped  her  hands  and  sat  up.  Her  face  was 
brought  on  a  level  with  his,  the  swollen  eyes  blinking 
through  tears,  the  mouth  twisted  and  pitiful. 

"It's  pain,  it's  pain,  Charlie,"  she  quavered. 

"Then  you  are  sick,"  he  said,  now  thoroughly  alarmed. 

"No — it's  not  my  body,  it's  my  heart.  It's  here."  She 
clasped  her  hands  over  her  heart,  and  suddenly  closing 
her  eyes  rocked  back  and  forth.  "A  little  while  ago  I 
was  so  happy.  I  never  was  like  that  before — every  min- 
ute of  the  day  lovely.  And  then  it  was  all  changed,  it  all 
ended.  I  couldn't  believe  it,  I  wouldn't  believe  it.  I  kept 
saying  'it'll  come  all  right,  nothing  so  awful  could  happen 
to  anyone.'  But  it  could — it  did.  And  it's  that  that's 

218 


Thereby  Hangs  a  Tale 


made  me  this  way — to  be  so  full  of  joy  and  then  to  have 
it  snatched  away.  It's  too  much,  Charlie.  Even  I  couldn't 
stand  it — I  who  once  thought  nothing  could  beat  me." 

Crowder  had  had  a  wide  experience  in  exhibitions  of 
human  suffering,  but  he  had  never  seen  anything  quite 
like  this.  Tenderness  was  not  what  was  needed,  and,  his 
eyes  stern  on  her  working  face,  he  said  with  quiet 
authority : 

"Pancha,  I  don't  get  what  this  means.  Now,  like  a 
good  girl,  tell  me.  I've  got  to  know." 

Then  and  there,  without  more  urging,  she  told  him. 

She  told  her  story  truthfully  as  far  as  she  went,  but 
she  did  not  go  to  the  end.  All  the  preceding  night,  the 
interview  with  Mayer,  had  repeated  itself  in  her  memory, 
bitten  itself  in  in  every  brutal  detail.  Hate  trailed  after 
it  a  longing  to  repay  in  kind  and  she  saw  herself  im- 
potent. The  threat  of  her  father's  championship, 
snatched  at  in  blind  rage,  she  knew  meant  nothing,  the 
boast  of  "getting  square"  was  empty.  Subtlety  was  her 
only  weapon  and  now  in  her  confession  to  Crowder  she 
employed  it.  What  she  told  of  Mayer's  conduct  was 
true,  but  she  did  not  tell  what  to  her  was  a  mitigating 
circumstance — the  counter-attraction  of  Chrystie.  The 
lure  of  money  was  to  this  child  of  poverty  an  excuse  for 
her  lover's  desertion.  Even  Crowder,  her  friend,  might 
condone  a  transfer  of  affection  from  Pancha  Lopez  to 
the  daughter  of  George  Alston.  So  the  young  man,  hear- 
ing the  story  ended,  saw  Mayer  as  Pancha  intended  him 
to — a  blackguard,  breaking  a  girl's  heart  for  pastime. 

"The  dog!"  he  muttered.  "The  cur!  Why  didn't  you 
tell  me?  I'd  have  sized  him  up  for  you." 

"I  believed  him,  I  thought  it  was  true.  And  I  was 
afraid  you'd  interfere — tell  me  it  was  all  wrong." 

The  young  man  shifted  his  eyes   from  her  face  and 


Treasure  and  Trouble  Therewith 

stifled  a  comment.  It  was  no  time  now  to  reproach  her. 
There  was  a  moment's  silence  and  then  she  broke  out  into 
the  query,  put  so  often  to  herself,  put  to  Mayer,  torment- 
ing and  inexplicable. 

"Why  did  he  do  it — why  did  he  begin  it?  It  was  he 
who  came,  sought  me  out,  gave  me  flowers.  He'd  come 
whenever  I'd  let  him — and  he  was  so  interested,  couldn't 
hear  enough  about  me.  There  wasn't  any  little  thing  in 
my  life  he  didn't  want  to  know.  Every  man  who'd  ever 
come  near  me  he'd  want  me  to  tell  him  about,  he'd  just 
hound  me  to  tell  him.  What  made  him  do  it  ?  Was  it  all 
a  fake  from  the  beginning,  and  if  it  was  did  he  do  it  just 
for  sport?" 

Crowder  had  no  answer  for  these  plaints.  He  was 
deeply  moved,  shocked  and  indignant,  more  than  he  let 

her  see.     "An  ugly  business,  a  d d  ugly  business,"  he 

growled,  his  honest  face  overcast  with  sympathy,  his 
hand,  big  and  not  over  clean,  lying  on  hers. 

"Never  mind,  old  girl,"  he  said;  "we'll  pull  you  out, 
we'll  get  you  on  your  feet  again.  We've  got  to  do  that 
before  we  turn  our  attention  to  him.  I  guess  he's  got  a 
weak  spot  and  I'll  find  it  before  I'm  done.  Who  is  he, 
anyway — where  does  he  come  from — what's  he  doing 

here?    He's  too  d d  reserved  to  come  out  well  in  the 

wash.  You  keep  still  and  leave  the  rest  to  me.  I'm  not 
your  old  pal  for  nothing." 

But  his  encouragement  met  with  no  response.  Her 
heart  unburdened,  she  lapsed  into  apathy  and  dropped 
back  on  the  pillow,  her  spurt  of  energy  over. 

He  lighted  the  light  and  tried  to  make  her  eat,  but  she 
pushed  away  the  glass  of  milk  he  offered  and  begged  him 
to  let  her  be.  So  there  was  nothing  for  it  but  to  make 
her  as  comfortable  as  he  could,  draw  the  table  to  her 
side,  straighten  the  Navajo  blanket  and  get  another  pil- 

220 


Thereby  Hangs  a  Tale 


low  from  the  bedroom.  Tomorrow  morning  he  would  send 
in  a  doctor  and  on  his  way  out  stop  at  the  office  and 
leave  a  message  for  the  chambermaid  to  look  in  on  her 
during  the  evening.  She  answered  his  good-by  with  a 
nod  and  a  slight,  twisted  smile,  the  first  he  had  seen  on 
her  face. 

"Lord!"  he  thought  as  he  closed  the  door,  "she  looks 
half  dead.  How  I'd  like  to  get  my  hooks  into  that  man !" 
,  Downstairs  he  gave  the  clerk  instructions  and  left  a 
tip  for  the  chambermaid — a  doctor  would  come  in  the 
morning  and  he  would  look  in  himself  in  the  course  of 
the  day.  She  was  to  want  for  nothing ;  if  there  was  any 
expense  he'd  be  responsible.  On  the  way  up  the  street 
he  bought  fruit,  magazines  and  the  evening  papers  and 
ordered  them  sent  to  her. 

The  next  morning  he  found  time  to  drop  into  the  Argo- 
naut Hotel  for  a  chat  with  Ned  Murphy.  The  chat, 
touching  lightly  on  the  business  of  the  place,  drifted 
without  effort  to  Mr.  Mayer,  always  to  Ned  Murphy,  an 
engaging  topic.  Crowder  went  away  not  much  the  wiser. 
Mayer,  if  a  little  offish,  was  as  satisfactory  a  guest  as 
any  hotel  could  ask  for — paid  his  bill  weekly,  always  in 
gold,  gave  no  trouble,  and  lived  pretty  quiet  and  retired, 
only  now  and  then  going  to  the  country  on  business. 
What  the  business  was  Ned  Murphy  didn't  know — he'd 
been  off  five  times  now,  leaving  in  the  morning  and  com- 
ing back  the  next  day.  But  he  wasn't  the  kind  to  talk — 
you  couldn't  get  next  him.  It  was  evident  that  Ned 
Murphy  took  a  sort  of  proprietary  pride  in  the  stately 
unapproachableness  of  the  star  lodger. 

In  the  shank  of  the  afternoon,  Crowder,  at  work  in  the 
city  room,  was  called  to  the  phone.  The  person  speak- 
ing was  Mark  Burrage  and  his  communication  was 
mysterious  and  urgent.  The  night  before,  in  a  curious 


Treasure  and  Trouble  Therewith 

and  unexpected  manner,  he  had  received  some  informa- 
tion of  a  deeply  interesting  nature  upon  which  he  wanted 
to  consult  Crowder.  Would  Crowder  meet  him  at 
Philip's  Rotisserie  that  evening  at  seven  and  arrange  to 
come  to  his  room  afterward  for  an  hour?  The  matter 
was  important,  and  Crowder  must  hustle  and  fix  it  if  it 
could  be  done.  Crowder  said  it  could,  and,  shut  off  from 
further  parley  by  an  abrupt  "So  long,"  was  left  wonder- 
ing. 


CHAPTER  XXIII 

THE  CHINESE  CHAIN 

WHAT  Mark  had  heard  was,  as  he  had  said,  in- 
teresting. It  had  been  imparted  in  an  inter- 
view as  startling  as  it  was  unexpected,  which 
had  taken  place  in  his  room  the  evening  before. 

He  was  sitting  by  the  table  reading,  the  radiance  of  a 
green  droplight  falling  over  the  litter  of  papers  and 
across  his  shoulder  to  the  page  of  his  book.  The  room, 
at  the  back  of  the  house,  had  been  chosen  as  much  for  its 
quiet  as  its  low  rent.  A  few  of  his  own  possessions  re- 
lieved the  ugliness  of  its  mean  furnishings,  and  it  had 
acquired  from  his  occupancy  a  lived-in,  comfortable  look. 
Two  windows  at  the  back  framing  the  night  sky  were 
open,  and  the  soft  April  air  flowed  in  upon  an  atmos- 
phere, smoke-thickened  and  heated  with  the  lamplight. 

Interruptions  were  unusual — a  call  to  the  telephone  in 
the  lower  hall,  a  rare  visitor,  Crowder  or  a  college  friend. 
This  was  why,  when  a  knock  fell  on  the  door,  he  looked 
up,  surprised.  It  was  an  unusual  knock,  soft  and  low, 
not  like  the  landlady's  irritated  summons,  or  Crowder's 
brusque  rat-tat.  In  answer  to  his  "Come  in,"  the  door 
swung  slowly  back  and  in  the  aperture  appeared  Fong. 

He  wore  the  Chinaman's  outdoor  costume,  the  dark, 
loose  upper  garment  fastening  tight  round  the  base  of 
the  throat,  the  short,  wide  trousers,  and  on  his  head  a 
black  felt  hat.  Under  the  brim  of  this  his  face  wore  an 
expression  of  hesitating  inquiry  as  if  he  were  not  sure 
of  his  reception. 


Treasure  and  Trouble  Therewith 

"Why,  hello!"  said  Mark,  dropping  his  book  in  sur- 
prise; "it's  Fong!" 

The  old  man,  his  hand  on  the  doorknob,  spoke  with 
apologetic  gentleness. 

"I  want  see  you,  Mist  Bullage — you  no  mind  if  I  come 
in?  I  want  see  you  and  talk  storlies  with  you." 

"First-rate,  come  ahead  in  and  take  a  seat." 

Closing  the  door  noiselessly  Fong  moved  soft-footed  to 
a  chair  beside  the  table.  Here,  taking  off  his  hat  and 
putting  it  in  his  lap,  he  fixed  a  look  on  Burrage  that 
might  have  been  the  deep  gaze  of  a  sage  or  the  vacant  one 
of  a  child.  The  green-shaded  lamp  sent  a  bright,  down- 
ward gush  of  light  over  his  legs,  its  mellowed  upper  glow 
shining  on  his  forehead,  high  and  bare  to  his  crown.  He 
had  the  curious,  sexless  appearance  of  elderly  Chinamen ; 
might  have  been,  with  his  tapering  hands,  flowing  coat, 
and  hairless  face,  an  old,  monkey-like  woman. 

"Well,"  said  Mark,  stretching  a  hand  for  his  pipe, 
thinking  his  visitor  had  come  to  pay  a  friendly  call,  "I'm 
glad  to  see  you,  Fong,  and  I'm  ready  to  talk  all  the 
storlies  you  want.  So  fire  away." 

Fong  considered,  studying  his  hat,  then  said  slowly : 

"You  velly  good  man,  Mist  Bullage,  and  you  lawyer. 
You  know  what  to  do — I  dunno  no  one  same  likey  you. 
Miss  Lolly  and  Miss  Clist  two  young  ladies — not  their 
business.  And  Missy  Ellen" — he  paused  for  a  second 
and  gave  a  faint  sigh — "Missy  Ellen  velly  fine  old  lady, 
but  no  sense.  My  old  boss's  fliends  most  all  dead,  new 
lawyers  take  care  of  his  money.  They  say  to  me,  *Get 
out,  old  Chinaman !'  But  you  don't  say  that.  So  I  come 
to  you." 

Mark's  hand,  extended  to  the  tobacco  jar  at  his  elbow, 
fell  to  the  chair  arm ;  the  easy  good  humor  of  his  expres- 
sion changed  to  attention. 


The  Chinese  Chain 


"Oh,  you've  come  for  advice.  I'll  be  glad  to  help  you 
any  way  I  can.  Let's  hear  the  trouble." 

Again  the  Chinaman  considered,  fingering  delicately  at 
his  hatbrim. 

"My  old  boss  awful  good  to  me.  He  die  and  no  more 
men  in  the  house.  I  take  care  my  boss's  children — I  care 
all  ways  I  can.  Old  Chinaman  can't  do  much  but  I  watch 
out.  And  one  man  come  that  I  no  likey.  I  know  you 
good  boy,  I  know  all  the  lest  good  boys,  but  Mist  Mayer 
bad  man." 

"Mayer!"  exclaimed  Mark.  "The  man  I  met  there  the 
other  night?" 

"Ally  samey  him." 

"What  do  you  mean  by  'bad'?" 

"I  come  tell  you  tonight." 

"You  know  something  definite  against  him?" 

"Yes.  I  find  out.  I  tly  long  time — one,  two  months — 
and  bimeby  I  get  him.  Then  he  not  come  for  a  while  and 
I  say  maybe  he  not  come  any  more  and  I  keep  my  mouth 
shut.  But  when  you  there  last  time  he  come  again  and 
I  go  tell  what  I  know." 

"You've  found  out  something  that  makes  you  think  he 
isn't  a  fit  person  to  have  in  the  house?" 

"Yes — I  go  velly  careful,  no  one  know  but  Chinamen. 
Two  Chinamen  help  me — one  Chinaman  get  another 
Chinaman  and  we  catch  on.  I  no  tell  Miss  Lolly,  she  too 
young;  I  come  tell  you." 

Mark  leaned  forward,  his  elbows  on  his  knees. 

"Say,  Fong,  I'm  a  little  mixed  up  about  this.  Sup- 
pose you  go  to  the  beginning  and  give  me  the  whole 
thing.  If  you  and  this  chain  of  China  boys  have  got 
something  on  Mayer  I  want  to  hear  it.  I'm  not  sur- 
prised that  you  think  him  a  'bad  man,'  but  I  want  to 
know  why  you  do." 


Treasure  and  Trouble  Therewith 

What  Fong  told  cannot  be  given  in  his  own  words, 
recited  in  his  pidgin  English,  broken  by  cautions  of 
secrecy  and  digressions  as  to  the  impracticability  of 
enlightening  his  young  ladies.  It  was  a  story  only  to 
be  comprehended  by  one  familiar  with  his  peculiar  phrase- 
ology, and  understanding  the  complex  mental  processes 
and  intricate  methods  of  his  race.  Condensed  and  trans- 
lated, it  amounted  to  this: 

From  the  first  he  had  doubted  and  distrusted  Mayer. 
In  his  dog-like  loyalty  to  his  "old  boss,"  his  love  for  the 
children  that  he  regarded  as  his  charge,  he  had  person- 
ally studied  and,  through  the  subterranean  lines  of  in- 
formation in  Chinatown,  inquired  into  the  character  and 
standing  of  every  man  that  entered  the  house.  Some- 
times when  Mayer  was  there,  he  had  stood  behind  the 
dining-room  door  and  listened  to  the  conversation  in  the 
parlor.  The  more  he  saw  of  the  man  the  more  his  dis- 
trust grew.  Asked  why,  he  could  give  no  reason;  he 
either  had  no  power  to  put  his  intuition  into  words,  or — 
what  is  more  probable — did  not  care  to  do  so. 

Two  months  before  the  present  date  a  friend  of  his, 
member  of  the  same  tong,  was  made  cook  in  the  Argo- 
naut Hotel.  This  gave  him  the  opportunity  to  set  in 
action  one  of  those  secret  systems  of  espionage  at  which 
the  Oriental  is  proficient.  The  cook,  confined  to  his 
kitchen,  became  a  communicating  link  between  Fong  and 
Jim,  the  room  boy  who  attended  to  Mayer's  apartment. 
Jim,  evidently  paid  for  his  services  and  described  as  "an 
awful  smart  boy,"  was  instructed  to  watch  Mayer  and 
note  anything  which  might  throw  light  on  his  character 
and  manner  of  life. 

To  an  unsuspecting  eye  the  result  of  Jim's  investiga- 
tions would  have  seemed  insignificant.  That  Mayer 
gambled  and  had  lost  heavily  the  three  men  already  knew 


The  Chinese  Chain 

from  the  gossip  of  Chinatown.  The  room  boy's  informa- 
tion was  confined  to  small  points  of  personal  habit  and 
behavior.  Among  Mayer's  effects,  concealed  in  the  back 
of  his  closet,  was  a  worn  and  decrepit  suitcase  which  he 
always  carried  when  he  went  on  his  business  trips.  These 
trips  occurred  at  intervals  of  about  six  weeks,  and  in  his 
casual  allusions  to  them  to  Ned  Murphy  and  Jim  himself 
he  had  never  mentioned  their  objective  point. 

It  was  his  habit  to  breakfast  in  his  room,  the  meal 
being  brought  up  on  a  tray  by  Jim  and  being  paid  for 
in  cash  each  morning.  For  two  and  sometimes  three  days 
before  the  trips,  Mayer  always  signed  a  receipt  for  the 
breakfast,  but  on  his  return  he  again  paid  in  cash. 
Through  a  bellboy,  who  had  admitted  Jim  to  a  patroniz- 
ing intimacy,  the  astute  Oriental  had  extended  his  field 
af  observation.  One  of  this  boy's  duties  was  to  carry  the 
nail  to  the  rooms  of  the  guests.  For  some  weeks  after 
lis  arrival  Mayer  had  received  almost  no  mail.  After 
:hat  letters  had  come  for  him,  but  all  had  borne  the 
ocal  postmark.  The  boy  never  remembered  to  have 
seen  a  letter  for  Mayer  from  New  York,  the  city  entered 
>n  the  register  as  his  home.  Through  this  boy  Jim  had 
ilso  gleaned  the  information  that  Mayer  invariably  paid 
lis  room  rent  in  coin.  He  had  heard  Ned  Murphy  com- 
nent  on  the  fact. 

From  this  scanty  data  Fong  and  his  associates  drew 
crtain  conclusions.  Mayer  had  no  bank  account,  but 
ie  had  plenty  of  money.  Besides  his  way  of  living,  his 
osses  at  gambling  proved  it.  His  funds  ran  low  before 
is  journeys  out  of  town,  suggesting  that  these  journeys 
rere  visits  to  some  source  of  supply.  Arrived  thus  far 
hey  decided  to  extend  their  spying.  The  next  time 
layer  left  the  city  Jim  was  paid  to  follow  him.  The 
oom  boy  waited  for  the  familiar  signs,  and  when  one 

227 


Treasure  and  Trouble  Therewith 

morning  Mayer  told  him  to  bring  a  check  slip  for  his 
breakfast,  went  to  the  housekeeper  and  asked  for  a  leave 
of  absence  to  visit  a  sick  "cousin."  The  following  day 
Jim  sat  in  the  common  coach,  Mayer  in  the  Pullman,  of 
the  Overland  train. 

Alighting  at  Sacramento  the  Chinaman  followed  his 
quarry  into  the  depot  and  saw  him  enter  the  washroom, 
presently  to  emerge  dressed  in  clothes  he  had  never  seen, 
though  his  study  of  Mayer's  wardrobe  had  been  meticu- 
lously thorough.  He  noted  every  detail — unshined, 
brown,  low  shoes,  an  overcoat  faded  across  the  shoulders, 
a  Stetson  hat  with  a  sweat-stained  band,  no  collar  and  a 
flashy  tie.  He  did  not  think  that  anyone,  unless  on  the 
watch  as  he  was,  would  have  recognized  Mayer  thus 
garbed. 

From  there  he  had  trailed  the  man  to  the  Whatcheer 
House.  Dodging  about  outside  the  window  he  watched 
him  register  at  the  desk,  then  disappear  in  the  back  of  the 
office.  A  few  minutes  later  Jim  went  in  and  asked  the 
clerk  for  a  job.  This  functionary,  sweeping  him  with  a 
careless  cast  of  his  eye,  said  they  had  no  work  for  a  China- 
man and  went  back  to  his  papers.  During  the  moment  of 
colloquy  Jim  had  looked  at  the  last  entry  in  the  register 
open  before  him.  Later  he  had  written  it  down  and  Fong 
handed  the  slip  of  paper  to  Mark.  On  it,  in  the  clear 
round  hand  of  the  Chinaman  who  goes  to  night  school, 
was  written  "Harry  Romaine,  Vancouver." 

This  brought  Fong  to  the  end  of  his  discoveries.  Hav- 
ing come  upon  a  matter  so  much  more  momentous  than 
he  had  expected,  he  was  baffled  and  had  brought  his 
perplexities  to  a  higher  court.  His  Oriental  subtlety 
had  done  its  part  and  he  was  now  prepared  to  let  the 
Occidental  go  on  from  where  he  had  left  off.  Mark  in- 
wardly thanked  heaven  that  the  old  man  had  come  to 

228 


The  Chinese  Chain 


him.  It  insured  secrecy,  meant  a  carrying  of  the  investi- 
gation to  a  climax  and  put  him  in  a  position  where  he 
could  feel  himself  of  use  to  Lorry.  If  to  the  Chinaman 
George  Alston's  house  was  a  place  set  apart  and  sacred, 
it  was  to  her  undeclared  lover  a  shrine  to  be  kept  free  at 
any  cost  from  such  an  intruder  as  Mayer.  It  did  not 
occur  to  him  as  strange  that  Fong  should  have  chosen 
him  to  carry  on  the  good  work.  In  the  astonished  indig- 
nation that  the  story  had  aroused  he  saw  nothing  but 
the  fact  that  a  soiled  and  sinister  presence  had  entered 
the  home  of  a  girl,  young,  ignorant  and  peculiarly  un- 
protected. Neither  he  nor  Fong  felt  the  almost  comic 
unusualness  of  the  situation — an  infrequent  guest  called 
upon  by  an  old  retainer  to  help  run  to  earth  another 
guest.  As  they  sat  side  by  side  at  the  table  each  saw 
only  the  fundamental  thing — from  separate  angles  the 
interests  of  both  converged  to  the  same  central  point. 

At  this  stage  Mark  was  unwilling  to  offer  advice.  They 
must  know  more  first,  and  to  that  end  he  told  Fong  to 
bring  Jim  to  his  room  the  following  night  at  eight.  Mean- 
time he  would  think  it  over  and  work  out  some  plan.  The 
next  day  he  sent  the  phone  message  to  Crowder  and  that 
night  told  him  the  story  over  dinner  at  Philip's  Rotis- 
serie. 

It  threw  Crowder  into  tense  excitement ;  he  became  the 
journalist  on  the  scent  of  a  sensation.  He  was  so  carried 
away  by  its  possibilities  that  he  forgot  Pancha's  part  in 
the  unfolding  drama.  It  was  not  till  they  were  walking 
to  Mark's  lodging  that  he  remembered  and  stopped  short, 
exclaiming : 

"By  Ginger,  I'd  forgotten!  Another  county  heard 
from;  it's  coming  in  from  all  sides." 

So  Pancha's  experience  was  added  to  the  case  against 
Mayer,  and  breasting  the  hills,  the  young  men  talked  it 


Treasure  and  Trouble  Therewith 


Isive, 


over,  Crowder  leaping  to  quick  conclusions,  impulsive 
imagination  running  riot,  Mark  more  judicial,  confining 
himself  to  what  facts  they  had,  warning  against  hasty 
judgments.  The  talk  finally  veered  to  the  Alston's  and 
Mark  had  a  question  to  ask  that  he  had  not  liked  to  put 
to  Fong.  He  moved  to  it  warily — did  Mayer  go  to  the 
Alston  house  often,  was  he  a  constant  visitor? 

"Well,  I  don't  know  how  constant,  but  I  do  know  he 
goes.  I've  met  him  there  a  few  times." 

"He  hasn't  been  after  either  of  them — his  name  hasn't 
been  connected  with  theirs?" 

"Oh,  no — nothing  like  that.  He's  just  one  of  the  bunch 
that  drops  in.  I  was  jollying  Chrystie  about  him  the 
other  night  and  she  seemed  to  dismiss  him  in  an  offhand 
sort  of  fashion." 

"He  oughtn't  to  go  at  all.  He  oughtn't  to  be  allowed 
inside  their  doors." 

"Right,  old  son.  But  there's  no  good  scaring  them  till 
we  know  more.  He  can't  do  them  any  harm." 

"Harm,  no.  But  a  blackguard  like  that  calling  on 
those  girls — it's  sickening." 

"Right  again,  and  if  we  get  anything  on  him  it's  up  to 
us  to  keep  them  out  of  the  limelight.  It  won't  be  hard. 
He  only  went  to  their  house  now  and  again  as  he  went  to 
lots  of  others.  If  this  Chinese  story  pans  out  as  promis- 
ing as  it  looks,  then  we  can  put  Lorry  wise  and  tell  her 
to  hang  out  the  'not  at  home'  sign  when  Mr.  Mayer  comes 
around.  But  we  don't  want  to  do  that  till  we've  good  and 
ample  reason.  Lorry's  the  kind  that  always  wants  a 
reason — especially  when  it  comes  to  turning  down  some- 
one she  knows.  No  good  upsetting  the  girl  till  we've  got 
something  positive  to  tell  her." 

Mark  agreed  grudgingly  and  then  they  left  the  Alston 
sisters,  to  work  out  the  best  method  of  discovering  what 

230 


The  Chinese  Chain 


took  Boye  Mayer  to  Sacramento  and  what  he  did  there. 

Jim  proved  to  be  a  young,  and  as  Fong  had  said, 
"awful  smart  boy."  Smuggled  into  the  country  in  his 
childhood,  he  spoke  excellent  English,  interspersed  with 
slang.  He  repeated  his  story  with  a  Chinaman's  un- 
imaginative exactness,  not  a  detail  changed,  omitted  or 
overemphasized.  The  young  men  were  impressed  by  him, 
intelligent,  imperturbable  and  self-reliant,  a  man  admir- 
ably fitted  to  put  in  execution  the  move  they  had  decided 
on.  This  turned  on  his  ability  to  insinuate  himself  into 
the  Whatcheer  House  and  by  direct  observation  find  out 
the  nature  of  the  business  that  required  an  alias  and  a 
disguise. 

Jim  said  it  could  easily  be  done.  By  the  payment  of 
a  small  sum — five  dollars — he  could  induce  the  present 
room  boy  in  the  Whatcheer  House  to  feign  illness,  and 
be  installed  as  a  substitute.  The  custom  among  Chinese 
servants  when  sick  to  fill  the  vacancy  they  leave  with  a 
friend  or  "cousin"  is  familiar  to  all  Californians.  The 
housewife,  finding  a  strange  boy  in  her  kitchen  and  ask- 
ing where  he  comes  from,  receives  the  calm  reply  that 
the  old  boy  is  sick,  and  the  present  incumbent  has  been 
called  upon  to  take  his  place.  Mayer's  last  visit  to 
Sacramento  had  been  made  three  weeks  previously. 
Arguing  from  past  data  this  would  place  the  next  one  at 
two  or  three  weeks  from  the  present  time.  But,  during 
the  last  few  days,  Jim  had  noticed  a  change  in  the  man. 
He  had  kept  to  his  room,  been  irritable  and  preoccupied, 
had  asked  for  a  railway  guide  and  been  seen  by  Jim  in 
close  study  of  it.  To  wait  till  he  made  his  next  trip 
meant  running  the  risk  of  missing  him.  It  would  be 
wiser  to  go  to  Sacramento  and  be  on  the  spot,  even  if 
the  time  so  spent  ran  to  weeks.  The  room  boy  could 
easily  be  fixed — another  five  dollars  would  do  that. 

231 


Treasure  and  Trouble  Therewith 

So  it  was  settled.  The  young  men,  pooling  their  re- 
sources, would  pay  Jim's  expenses,  ten  dollars  for  the 
room  boy,  and  a  bonus  of  fifty.  If  he  brought  back  im- 
portant information  this  would  be  raised  to  a  hundred, 
When  he  came  back  he  was  to  communicate  with  Fong, 
who  in  turn  would  communicate  with  Mark,  and  a  date 
for  meeting  be  set.  It  was  now  Monday;  arrangements 
for  his  temporary  absence  from  the  Argonaut  Hotel  could 
be  made  the  next  morning,  and  he  would  leave  for  Sacra- 
mento  in  the  afternoon. 


CHAPTER  XXIV 

LOVERS  AND  LADIES 

MAYER  was  putting  his  affairs  in  order,  pre- 
paratory to  flight.  A  final  interview  with 
Chrystie  would  place  him  where  he  wanted  to 
be,  and  that  would  be  followed  by  a  visit  to  Sacramento 
and  a  withdrawal  of  what  remained  of  his  money.  He 
had  a  little  over  two  thousand  dollars  left,  enough  to  get 
them  to  New  York  and  keep  them  there  for  a  month  or  so 
in  a  good  hotel.  Before  this  would  be  expended  he  would 
have  gained  so  complete  an  ascendancy  over  her  that  the 
control  of  her  fortune  would  be  in  his  hands.  Payment 
of  a  gambling  debt  of  three  hundred  and  fifty  dollars — 
owed  him  now  for  some  weeks — had  been  promised  on  the 
following  Monday.  He  would  go  to  Sacramento  on 
Saturday  or  Sunday,  get  this  money  on  his  return  and 
then  all  would  be  ready  for  his  exit. 

He  went  over  it  point  by  point,  scanning  it  closely, 
viewing  it  in  its  full  extent,  weighing,  studying,  deter- 
mined that  no  detail  should  be  overlooked.  Outwardly 
his  serenity  was  unruffled ;  his  veiled  eye  showed  its  cus- 
tomary cool  indifference,  his  manner  its  ironical  suavity. 
Inwardly  he  was  taut  as  a  racer,  his  toe  to  the  line,  wait- 
ing for  the  starting  signal.  There  were  moments,  pacing 
up  and  down  his  room,  when  he  felt  chilled  by  freezing 
air  currents,  as  if  icebergs  might  have  suddenly  floated 
down  Montgomery  Street  and  come  to  anchor  opposite 
the  hotel. 

There  were  so  many  unexpected  menaces — the  man 

233 


Treasure  and  Trouble  Therewith 

Burrage  that  he  might  run  against  anywhere,  Pancha,  a 
jealous  virago — nobody  knew  what  a  woman  in  that  state 
mightn't  do — and  Chrystie  herself.  In  the  high  tension 
of  his  nerves  she  was  indescribably  irritating,  full  of 
moods,  preyed  upon  by  gnawings  of  conscience.  He  had 
already  given  her  an  outline  of  his  plan,  tentatively  sug- 
gested it — you  had  to  suggest  things  tentatively  to 
Chrystie — drawn  lightly  a  romantic  picture  of  their 
flight  on  the  Overland  to  Reno. 

They  were  to  leave  on  Tuesday  night,  reaching  Reno 
the  next  morning  and  there  alighting  for  the  marriage. 
He  had  chosen  the  night  train  as  the  least  conspicuous. 
Chrystie  could  be  shut  up  in  a  stateroom  and  he  on  guard 
outside  where  he  could  keep  his  eye  on  the  door — it  was 
more  like  a  kidnaping  than  an  elopement.  At  other 
times  he  might  have  laughed,  but  he  was  far  from  laugh- 
ing now.  It  wasn't  someone  else's  distressing  predica- 
ment, it  was  his  own. 

When  he  had  explained  it  he  had  met  with  one  of  those 
maddening  stupidities  of  hers  that  strained  his  forbear- 
ance to  the  breaking  point.  How  could  she  get  away 
without  Lorry  knowing — Lorry  always  knew  where 
she  went?  She  was  miserable  over  it,  sitting  close 
against  his  shoulder  on  a  bench  opposite  the  Greek 
Church. 

"How  about  going  for  a  few  days  to  your  friends,  the 
Barlows,  at  San  Mateo?"  he  had  said,  his  hand  folded 
tight  on  hers. 

"The  Barlows !"  she  exclaimed.  "The  Barlows  haven't 
asked  me." 

That  was  the  sort  of  thing  she  was  always  saying  and 
he  had  to  answer  with  patient  softness. 

"I  know  that,  dear  one,  but  why  can't  you  tell  Lorry 
that  they  have.  They're  going  to  have  a  dance  and  a 


Levers  and  Ladies 


house  party  and  they  want  you  to  come  on  Tuesday  and 
stay  over  till,  say  Thursday  or  Friday." 

She  cogitated,  looking  very  troubled.  He  was  becom- 
ing used  to  the  expression,  it  invariably  followed  his 
promptings  to  falsehood. 

"I  suppose  I  could,"  she  murmured. 

He  pressed  the  hand  tenderly. 

"I  don't  want  to  urge  you  to  do  anything  you  don't 
like,  but  I  don't  see  what  else  there  is  for  it.  It's  not 
really  our  fault  that  we  have  to  run  away — it's  Lorry's. 
You've  said  yourself  that  she'd  make  objections,  not  to 
our  way  of  doing  things,  but  to  me." 

Chrystie  nodded. 

"She  would.     I'd  have  a  fight  to  marry  you  anyway." 

No  one  was  in  sight  and  he  raised  the  gloved  hand  and 
pressed  it  to  his  lips.  Dropping  it  he  purred  : 

"We  don't  want  any  fights.  We  don't  want  our  joy 
marred  by  bickerings  and  interference." 

Chrystie  agreed  to  that  and  then  muttered  in  gloomy 
repudiation  of  Lorry's  prejudices: 

"I  don't  see  why  she  feels  that  way  about  you.  No- 
body else  does." 

"We  won't  bother  about  that.  She  doesn't  have  to 
love  me.  Perhaps  later  I'll  be  able  to  prove  to  her  that 
her  brother-in-law  isn't  such  a  bad  chap  after  all."  He 
shifted  a  little  closer,  flicking  up  with  a  possessive  finger 
a  strand  of  golden  hair  that  had  fallen  across  her  cheek, 
and  murmuring  his  instructions  into  the  shell  pink  ear 
his  hand  brushed.  "You  tell  her  you've  had  an  invita- 
tion from  the  Barlows  to  come  down  on  Tuesday  and 
stay  till  Friday.  Say  they're  going  to  have  a  party. 
That  being  the  case  you'll  take  a  good-sized  trunk.  Give 
the  order  yourself  to  the  expressman  and  tell  him  to  send 
it  to  the  ferry  and  when  you  get  there  check  it  to  Reno. 

235 


Treasure  and  Trouble  Therewith 

Then  you  leave  the  house  in  time  to  catch  the  late  after- 
noon train  to  San  Mateo  and  as  soon  as  you  get  out  of 
sight  order  your  driver  to  take  you  to  the  ferry.  You'd 
better  cross  at  once  and  do  what  waiting  you'll  have  on 
the  Oakland  side." 

"You'll  be  there?"  she  said,  stirring  uneasily. 

"Yes,  but  I  won't  speak  to  you." 

"Oh,  dear" — it  was  almost  a  wail — "how  I  wish  we 
could  be  married  at  home  like  Christians !" 

"My  darling,  my  darling,  don't  make  it  any  harder 
for  me.  You  never  wanted  anything  in  your  life  as  much 
as  I  want  to  take  your  hand  and  call  you  mine  before  the 
eyes  of  the  whole  world.  But  it's  impossible — you  your- 
self were  the  first  to  say  so.  We  don't  want  a  family 
row,  a  scandal,  all  in  the  papers.  Love  mustn't  be 
dragged  through  that  sort  of  ignominy." 

She  thought  so,  too ;  she  always  agreed  with  him  when 
he  talked  of  love.  But  he  had  to  come  down  to  earth 
and  the  Barlows,  finding  it  necessary  to  instruct  her 
even  in  such  small  matters  as  how  she  was  to  get  the 
letter  from  them.  She  was  simply  to  tell  Lorry  such  a 
letter  had  come  and  she  had  answered  it,  accepting  the 
invitation.  It  was  perfectly  simple — didn't  she  see? 

She  saw,  her  head  drooped,  telling  Lorry  about  that 
letter  which  was  never  to  arrive  and  that  answer  which 
was  never  to  be  written,  bringing  back  the  old,  sick 
qualms.  There  had  to  be  more  inspiring  talk  of  love 
before  she  was  brought  up  to  the  point  where  he  dared 
to  leave  her,  felt  his  influence  strong  enough  to  last  till 
the  next  meeting.  He  wondered  irascibly  if  all  home- 
bred,  nice  young  girls  were  such  fools  and  realized  why 
he'd  never  liked  them. 

That  same  afternoon  Lorry  had  a  visitor.  While 
Chrystie  was  walking  home,  poised  on  the  edge  of  the 


Lovers  and  Ladies 


great  exploit,  at  one  moment  seeing  the  tumult  left  by 
her  flight,  at  the  next  that  flight,  wing  and  wing,  through 
the  golden  future  with  her  eagle  mate,  Lorry  was  sitting 
in  the  drawing-room  talking  to  Mark  Burrage. 

He  had  not  told  Crowder  that  he  was  going,  had  not 
decided  to  go  till  the  morning  after  he  had  seen  Crowder 
and  the  two  Chinamen.  When  they  had  gone  he  had  sat 
pondering,  and  that  question  which  he  had  not  liked  to 
ask  Fong  and  which  he  had  only  tentatively  put  to  his 
friend,  rose,  insistent,  demanding  a  more  informed  answer. 
Was  this  man — more  than  objectionable,  probably  crim- 
inal— paying  court  to  Lorry?  It  was  a  horrible  idea,  that 
haunted  him  throughout  the  night.  He  recalled  Mayer's 
manner  to  her  the  evening  of  his  visit,  and  hers  to  him. 
Not  that  he  thought  she  could  have  been  attracted  to  the 
man ;  she  was  too  fine,  her  instincts  too  true.  But  on  the 
other  hand  she  was  young,  so  unlearned  in  the  world's 
ways,  so  liable  to  be  duped  through  her  own  innocence. 
His  thoughts  swung  like  a  pendulum  from  point  of  tor- 
ment to  point  of  torment  and  in  the  morning  he  rose, 
determined  on  the  visit.  It  was  to  satisfy  himself  and 
if  possible  drop  a  hint  of  warning.  He  never  thought  of 
Chrystie.  She  was  a  child  and  on  that  evening  Mayer 
had  treated  her.  as  such,  paying  her  only  the  scanty  meed 
of  attention  that  politeness  demanded. 

When  he  started  for  the  house  he  had  entered  on  a 
new  phase  in  his  relation  to  her.  He  was  no  longer  the 
humble  visitor,  overawed  by  her  riches,  but  someone 
whose  business  it  was  to  watch  over  and  take  care  of  her. 
It  bridged  the  gulf  between  them,  swept  away  artificial 
distinctions.  He  forgot  himself,  his  awkwardness,  how 
he  impressed  her.  These  once  important  considerations 
ceased  to  exist  and  a  man,  concerned  about  a  woman, 
feeling  his  obligations  to  look  after  her,  emerged  from 

237 


Treasure  and  Trouble  Therewith 

the  hobbledehoy  that  had  once  been  Marquis  de  Lafayette 
Burrage. 

She  saw  the  change  at  the  first  glance.  It  was  in  his 
face,  in  his  manner,  no  longer  diffident,  assured,  almost 
commanding.  Their  positions  were  transformed,  she  less 
a  fine  lady,  queening  it  amid  the  evidences  of  her  wealth, 
than  a  girl,  lonely  and  uncared  for,  he  the  dominating, 
masculine  presence  that  her  life  had  lacked.  The  woman 
in  her,  slowly  unfolding  in  secret  potency,  felt  his  ascend- 
ancy and  bloomed  into  fuller  being.  They  were  conscious 
of  the  constraint  and  shyness  that  had  been  between 
them  giving  place  to  a  gracious  ease,  of  having  suddenly 
experienced  a  harmonious  adjustment  that  had  come 
about  without  effort  or  intention. 

Over  the  smooth,  sweet  sense  of  it  they  talked  on  in- 
different matter,  items  of  local  importance,  small  social 
doings,  the  Metropolitan  Opera  Company  which  was  to 
open  its  season  on  the  following  Monday  night.  It  was 
wonderful  how  interesting  everything  was,  how  they 
passed  from  subject  to  subject.  They  had  so  much  to 
say  that  the  shadows  were  rising  in  the  distant  end  of 
the  room  before  Mark  came  to  the  real  matter  of  mo- 
ment. It  was  proof  of  the  change  in  him  that  he  did  not 
grope  and  blunder  to  it  but  brought  it  forward  with  one 
abrupt  question. 

"Who  is  Mr.  Mayer  that  I  met  here  the  other  night?" 

"Well — he's  just  Mr.  Mayer — a  man  from  the  East 
who's  in  California  for  his  health.  That's  all  I  know 
about  him,  except  that  he  lived  a  long  time  in  Europe 
when  he  was  a  boy  and  a  young  man." 

"How  did  you  come  to  meet  him?" 

"Through  Mrs.  Kirkham,  an  old  friend  of  Mother's. 
She  brought  him  here  and  then  we  asked  him  to  dinner." 
She  paused,  but  the  young  man,  his  eyes  on  the  ground, 

238 


Lovers  and  Ladies 


naking  no  comment,  she  concluded  with,  "Did  you  think 
le  was  interesting?" 

He  raised  his  glance  to  hers  and  said: 

"No— I  didn't  like  him." 

Lorry  leaned  from  her  chair,  her  eyebrows  lifted,  her 
xpression  mischievously  confidential. 

"Then  we  have  one  taste  in  common — neither  do  I." 

She  was  surprised  to  see  Mark  flush,  and  his  gaze  widen 
o  a  piercing  fixity.  She  thought  her  plain  speaking  had 
ffended  him  and  hastened  to  excuse  it: 

"I  know  that  isn't  a  nice  thing  to  say  about  a  guest  in 
our  house,  and  I  don't  say  it  to  everybody — only  to 
ou.  Are  you  shocked?" 

"No,  I'm  relieved.  But  I  couldn't  think  you  would 
ke  him." 

"Why?    All  the  other  girls  do." 

"You're  not  like  the   other  girls.     You're "     He 

topped  abruptly,  again  dropped  his  eyes  and  said,  "He's 
o  good — he's  a  fake." 

"There!"  She  was  quite  eager  in  her  agreement. 
That's  just  the  impression  he  gives  me.  I  felt  it  the 
rst  time  I  saw  him." 

"Then  why  do  you  have  him  here?" 

The  note  of  reprimand  was  unconscious,  but  to  the 
oung  girl  it  was  plain  and  her  heart  thrilled  in  response 
)  its  authority. 

"We  needed  an  extra  man  for  our  dinner — the  dinner 
mt  you  refused  to  come  to." 

She  laughed  at  him  in  roguish  triumph,  and  it  was 
idescribably  charming.  He  joined  in,  shame-faced, 
umbling  something  about  his  work. 

"So  you  see,  Mr.  Burrage,"  she  said,  "in  a  sort  of 
ay  it  was  your  fault." 

"It's  not  my  fault  that  he  keeps  on  coming." 

239 


Treasure  and  Trouble  Therewith 

"No,  I  guess  that's  mine.  I  ask  him  and  he  has  to 
pay  a  call.  He's  very  polite  about  that." 

She  laughed  again,  delighted  at  this  second  chance,  but 
now  he  did  not  j  oin  in.  Instead  he  became  gravely  urgent, 
much  more  so  than  so  slight  a  matter  demanded. 

"But  look  here,  Miss  Alston,  what's  the  sense  of  doing 
that?  What's  the  sense  of  having  a  person  round  you 
don't  like?" 

She  gave  a  deprecating  shrug. 

"Oh,  well,  it's  not  as  bad  as  all  that.  I  have  really 
nothing  against  him ;  he's  always  entertaining  and  pleas- 
ant and  makes  things  go  off  well.  It's  just  my  own 
feeling;  I  have  no  reason.  I  can't  discriminate  against 
him  because  of  that." 

Mark  was  silent.  It  was  hateful  to  him  to  hear  her 
blaming  herself,  offering  excuses  for  the  truth  of  her 
instinct.  But  he  had  agreed  with  Crowder  not  to  tell 
her,  and  anyway  he  had  satisfied  himself  as  to  her  senti- 
ments— she  was  proof  against  Mayer's  poisonous  charm. 
At  this  stage  he  could  enlighten  her  no  further;  all  that 
now  remained  for  him  to  do  was  to  give  her  a  hint  of 
that  guardianship  to  which  he  was  pledged. 

"It's  a  big  responsibility  for  you,  running  a  place 
like  this,  letting  the  right  people  in  and  keeping  the 
wrong  ones  out." 

"It  is,  and  I  don't  suppose  I  do  it  very  well.  It  was 
all  so  new  and  I  was  so  green." 

"Well,  it's  not  a  girl's  job.  You  ought  to  have  a 
watch  dog.  How  would  I  answer?" 

She  smiled. 

"What  would  you  do — bay  on  the  front  steps  every 
time  Mr.  Mayer  came?" 

"That's  right — show  my  teeth  so  he  couldn't  get  at 
the  bell.  But,  joking  apart,  I'd  like  you  to  look  upon 

240 


Loners  and  Ladies 


me  that  way — I  mean  if  you  ever  wanted  anyone  to  con- 
sult with.  You're  just  two  girls — you  might  need  a 
man's  help — things  come  up." 

The    smile   died    from   her   lips.      She   was    surprised, 
gratefully,  sweetly  surprised. 

"Oh,  Mr.  Burrage,  that's  very  kind  of  you." 
"No,  it's  not.     The  kindness  would  be  on  your  side, 
the  way  it  has  been  right  along.     I'd  think  a  lot  of  it  if 
you'd  let  me  feel  that  if  you  wanted  help  or  advice,  or 
anything  of  that  kind,  you'd  ask  it  of  me." 

Had  she  looked  at  him  the  impassioned  earnestness  of 
is  face  would  have  increased  her  surprise.     But  she  was 
>oking  at  the  tassel  on  the  chair  arm,  drawing  its  strands 
owly  through  her  fingers. 
"Perhaps  I  will  some  day,"  she  murmured. 
"Honest — not  hesitate  to  send  for  me  if  you  ever  think 
could  be  of  any  service  to  you?    Will  you  promise?" 
A  woman  more  experienced,  more  quick  in  a  perception 
f  surface  indications,  might  have  guessed   a  weightier 
latter  than  the  young  man's  words  implied.     Lorry  took 
icm  as  they  were,  feeling  only  the  heart  behind  them. 
"Yes,  I'll  promise,"  she  said. 

"Then  it's  a  pact  between  us.  I'll  know  if  you  ever 
ant  me  you'll  call  on  me.  And  I'll  come;  I'll  come,  no 
latter  where  I  am." 

The  room  was  growing  dim,  dusk  stealing  out  from 
s  corners  into  the  space  near  the  long  windows  where 
icy  sat.  Their  figures,  solid  and  dark  in  the  larger 
of  the  two  armchairs,  were  motionless,  and  in 
pause  following  his  words,  neither  stirred  or  spoke. 
b  was  a  silence  without  embarrassment  or  constraint,  a 
loment  of  arrested  external  cognizances.  Each  felt  the 
ther  as  close,  suddenly  glimpsed  intimate  and  real,  a 
ash  of  finer  vision  that  for  an  instant  held  them  in 


Treasure  and  Trouble  Therewith 

subtle  communion.  Then  it  passed  and  they  were  saying 
good-by,  moving  together  into  the  hall.  Fong  had  not  yet 
lighted  the  gas  and  it  was  very  dim  there;  Mark  had  to 
grope  for  his  hat  on  the  stand.  He  touched  her  hand 
in  farewell,  hardly  conscious  of  the  physical  contact, 
heard  his  own  mechanical  words  and  her  reply.  Then 
the  door  opened,  shut  and  he  was  gone. 

Lorry  went  upstairs  to  her  own  room.  Her  being  was 
permeated  with  an  inner  content,  radiating  like  light 
from  a  center  of  peace.  She  closed  her  eyes  to  better 
feel  the  comfort  of  it,  to  rest  upon  its  infinite  assurance. 
She  had  no  desire  to  know  whence  it  rose,  did  not  even 
ask  herself  if  he  loved  her.  From  a  state  of  dull  distress 
she  had  suddenly  come  into  a  consciousness  of  perfect 
well-being,  leaving  behind  her  a  past  where  she  had  been 
troubled  and  lonely.  Their  paths,  wandering  and  uncer- 
tain, had  met,  converging  on  some  higher  level,  where  they 
stood  together  in  a  deep,  enfolding  security. 

She  was  still  motionless  in  the  gathering  dusk  when 
Chrystie  entered  the  room  beyond,  filling  it  with  silken 
rustlings  and  the  tapping  of  high  heels.  Lorry  did  not 
know  she  was  there  till  she  came  to  the  open  door  and 
looked  in. 

"Oh,  Lorry,  is  that  you?  What  are  you  doing  sitting 
like  Patience  in  a  rocking  chair?" 

"I  don't  know — thinking,  dreaming." 

Chrystie  withdrew  with  mutterings ;  could  be  heard 
moving  about.  Suddenly  she  exclaimed,  "It's  a  glorious 
afternoon,"  and  then  shut  a  drawer  with  a  bang.  Pres- 
ently two  short,  sharp  rings  sounded  from  the  hall  below 
and  following  them  her  voice  rose  high  and  animated: 

"That's  the  mail.  I'll  go  and  see  if  there's  anything 
exciting." 

Lorry  heard  her  turbulent  descent  of  the  stairs   and 


Lovers  and  Ladies 


lame  back  to  a  realization  of  her  environment.  In  a  few 
ninutes  Chrystie  was  in  her  room  again,  a  little  breath- 
ess  from  her  race  up  the  long  flight. 

"There're  only  two  letters,"  she  called.  "One  for  you 
ind  one  for  me." 

Lorry  was  not  interested  in  letters  and  made  no  re- 
ponse,  and  after  a  pause  heard  her  sister's  voice,  raised 
n  the  same  vivacious  note: 

Mine's  from  Lilly  Barlow.  She  wants  me  to  come 
ywn  on  Tuesday  and  stay  over  till  Friday.  They're 
iving  a  dance." 

"A  dance— oh,  that'll  be  lovely.     When  i»  it  to  be?" 

"Tuesday  night.  I'm  to  go  down  on  the  evening  train 
id  they'll  meet  me  with  the  motor." 

"I'm  so  glad — you  always  have  a  good  time  there." 

Lorry  appeared  in  the  doorway.  The  room  was  nearly 
irk,  the  last  blue  light  slanting  in  through  the  uncur- 
ined  window.  By  its  faint  illumination  she  saw 
tirystie's  face  in  the  mirror,  glum  and  unsmiling.  It 
as  not  the  expression  with  which  the  youngest  Miss 
Iston  generally  greeted  calls  to  festivals. 

"What's  the  matter,  Chrystie?"  she  said.  "Don't  you 
int  to  go?" 

The  girl  wheeled  round  sharply. 

"Of  course  I  do.  Why  shouldn't  I?  Did  you  ever 
low  me  not  want  to  go  to  a  dance?" 

Then  you'd  better  write  and  accept  at  once.  They're 
robably  putting  up  other  people  and  they'll  want  to 
low  if  you're  coming." 

"I'll  do  it  tonight.  There's  no  such  desperate  hurry; 
can  phone  down.  There's  your  letter  on  the  bureau." 

She  threw  herself  on  the  bed,  a  long,  formless  shape  in 

e  shadowy  corner.  She  lay  there  without  speaking  as 
Drry  took  her  letter  to  the  window  and  read  it.  It  was 

243 


Treasure  and  Trouble  Therewith 

from  Mrs.  Kirkham;  a  friend  had  sent  her  a  box  for  the 
opera  on  Tuesday  night  and  she  invited  both  girls.  It 
would  be  a  great  occasion,  everybody  was  going,  Caruso 
was  to  sing.  Lorry  looked  up  from  it,  quite  dismayed; 
it  was  too  bad  that  Chrystie  would  miss  it.  But  Chrystie 
from  the  darkness  of  the  bed  said  she  didn't  care;  she'd 
rather  dance  than  hear  Caruso,  or  any  other  singing 
man — music  bored  her  anyhow.  Lorry  left  her  and  went 
into  her  own  room  to  write  an  acceptance  for  herself  and 
regrets  for  her  sister. 

At  nine  that  night  Mark  was  sitting  by  his  table,  his 
book  on  his  knee,  his  eyes  on  the  smoke  wreaths  that  lay 
across  the  air  in  light  layers,  when  his  dreams  were 
broken  by  a  knock  on  his  door.  It  was  his  landlady  with 
a  telegram: 

Mother  very  sick.    Pneumonia.    Come  at  once. 

SADIE. 

There  was  a  train  for  Stockton  in  half  an  hour,  an 
he  could  make  the  distance  between  the  town  and  th 
ranch  by  horse  or  stage.  He  made  a  race  for  it  and  i 
the  station,  finding  himself  a  few  minutes  ahead,  took 
call  for  Crowder  at  the  Despatch  office  and  caught  him 
In  a  few  words  he  told  him  what  had  happened,  that  h 
didn't  know  how  long  he  might  be  away  and  that  if  new 
came  from  Jim  before  his  return  to  let  him  know 
Crowder  promised. 


CHAPTER    XXV 

WHAT  JIM  SAW 

THE  next  morning  Crowder  sent  a  letter  to  Fong 
advising  him  of  Mark's  departure.  Should  Jim 
get  back  from  Sacramento  within  the  next  few 
days  he  was  to  communicate  with  Crowder  at  the 
Despatch  office.  The  young  man  had  no  expectation  of 
early  news,  but  he  was  going  to  run  no  risks  with  what 
promised  to  be  a  sensation.  His  journalist's  instincts 
were  aroused,  and  he  was  resolved  to  keep  for  his  own 
paper  and  his  own  kudos  the  most  picturesque  story  that 
had  ever  come  his  way.  He  went  about  his  work,  rest- 
less and  impatient,  seeing  the  story  on  the  Despatch's 
front  page  and  himself  made  the  star  reporter  of  the 
staff. 

He  had  not  long  to  wait.  On  Monday  morning  he 
was  called  from  the  city  room  to  the  telephone.  Through 
the  transmitter  came  the  soft  and  even  voice  of  Jim;  he 
had  returned  from  Sacramento  the  night  before,  and  if  it 
was  convenient  for  Mr.  Crowder  could  see  him  that 
afternoon  at  two  in  Portsmouth  Square.  Mr.  Crowder 
would  make  it  convenient,  and  Jim's  good-by  hummed 
gently  along  the  wire. 

The  small  plaza — a  bit  of  the  multicolored  East 
embedded  in  the  new,  drab  West — was  a  place  where 
Orient  and  Occident  touched  hands.  There  Chinese 
mothers  sat  on  the  benches  watching  their  children  play- 
ing at  their  feet,  and  Chinese  fathers  carried  babies, 
little  bunched-up,  fat  things  with  round  faces  and  glis- 


Treasure  and  Trouble  Therewith 

tening  onyx  eyes.  Sons  of  the  Orient,  bent  on  business, 
passed  along  the  paths,  exchanging  greetings  in  a  sing- 
song of  nasal  voices,  cues  braided  with  rose-colored  silk 
swinging  to  their  knees.  Above  the  vivid  green  of  the 
grass  and  the  dark  flat  branches  of  cypress  trees,  the 
back  of  Chinatown  rose,  alien  and  exotic :  railings  touched 
with  gold  and  red,  lanterns,  round  and  crimson  or  oblong 
with  pale,  skin-like  coverings,  on  the  window  ledges  blue 
and  white  bowls  upholding  sheaves  of  lilies,  the  rich  em- 
blazonry of  signs,  the  thick  gilded  arabesques  of  a  res- 
taurant's screened  balconies. 

Crowder  found  his  man  standing  by  the  pedestal  on 
which  the  good  ship  Bonaventure  spreads  its  shining 
sails  before  the  winds  of  romance.  A  quiet  hail  and  they 
were  strolling  side  by  side  to  a  bench  sheltered  by  a 
growth  of  laurel. 

Mayer  had  appeared  at  the  Whatcheer  House  the  day 
before  at  noon.  Jim,  crossing  the  back  of  the  office,  had 
seen  him  enter,  and  loitering  heard  him  tell  the  clerk  that 
he  would  give  up  his  room  that  afternoon  as  his  base  had 
shifted  to  Oregon.  Then  he  had  gone  upstairs,  and  Jim 
had  followed  him  and  seen  him  go  into  No.  19,  the  last 
door  at  the  end  of  the  hall  on  the  left-hand  side. 

The  hall  was  empty  and  very  quiet.  It  was  the  lunch 
hour,  a  time  at  which  the  place  was  deserted.  Arming 
himself  with  a  duster  Jim  had  stolen  down  the  passage 
to  No.  19.  Standing  by  the  door  he  could  hear  Mayer 
walking  about  inside,  and  then  a  sound  as  if  he  was  mov- 
ing the  furniture.  With  the  duster  held  ready  for  use 
Jim  had  looked  through  the  keyhole  and  seen  Mayer  with 
a  chisel  in  his  hand,  the  bed  behind  him  drawn  out  from 
the  wall  to  the  middle  of  the  room. 

Emboldened  by  the  hall's  silence,  Jim  had  continued 
to  watch.  He  saw  Mayer  go  to  the  corner  where  the  bed 


What  Jim  Saw 


had  stood,  lift  the  carpet  and  the  boards  below  it  and 
take  from  beneath  them  two  canvas  sacks.  From  these 
he  shook  a  stream  of  gold  coins — more  than  a  thousand 
dollars,  maybe  two.  He  let  them  lie  there  while  he  put 
back  the  sacks,  replaced  the  boards  and  carpet  and 
pushed  the  bed  into  its  corner.  Then  he  gathered  up  the 
money,  rolling  some  of  it  in  a  piece  of  linen,  which  he 
packed  in  his  suitcase,  and  putting  the  rest  in  a  money 
belt  about  his  waist.  After  that  he  took  up  his  hat  and 
Jim  slipped  away  to  a  broom  closet  at  the  upper  end 
of  the  hall. 

From  here  the  Chinaman  saw  his  quarry  come  out  of 
the  room  and  go  down  the  stairs.  At  the  desk  Mayer 
stopped,  told  the  clerk  he  had  vacated  No.  19,  but  would 
wait  in  the  office  for  a  while  as  his  train  was  not  due  to 
leave  till  the  afternoon.  From  the  stairhead  Jim  watched 
him  take  a  seat  by  the  window,  and,  the  suitcase  at  his 
feet,  pick  up  a  paper  and  begin  to  read. 

It  was  a  rule  of  the  Whatcheer  House  that  a  vacated 
room  was  subjected  to  a  "thorough  cleaning."  Trans- 
lated this  meant  a  run  over  the  floor  with  a  carpet 
sweeper  and  a  change  of  sheets.  The  door  of  No.  19 
had  been  left  unlocked,  and  while  Mayer  sat  in  the  office 
conning  the  paper,  Jim  with  the  necessary  rags  and 
brooms  was  putting  No.  19  in  shape  for  the  next  tenant. 
An  inside  bolt  on  the  door  made  him  secure  against  in- 
terruption, and  the  bed  drawn  to  the  middle  of  the  floor 
was  part  of  the  traditional  rite.  Carpet  and  boards  came 
up  easily;  his  cache  empty  Mayer  had  not  troubled  to 
renail  them.  In  the  space  between  the  rafters  and  the 
flooring  Jim  had  found  no  more  money,  only  a  bunch  of 
canvas  sacks,  and  a  dirty  newspaper.  With  the  China- 
man's meticulous  carefulness  he  had  brought  these  back 
to  his  employers ;  in  proof  of  which  he  laid  a  small,  neatly 

247 


Treasure  and  Trouble  Therewith 

tied  package  on  Crowder's  knee.  For  the  rest  his  work 
was  done.  He  had  paid  the  Whatcheer  room  boy  and  seen 
him  reinstated,  had  followed  Mayer  to  the  depot,  viewed 
his  transformation  there,  and  ridden  with  him  on  the  night 
train  back  to  San  Francisco. 

To  Crowder's  commending  words  he  murmured  a  smiling 
deprecation.  What  concerned  him  most  was  his  "prize 
money,"  which  was  promised  on  Mark's  return.  Then, 
nodding  sagely  to  the  young  man's  cautioning  of  secrecy, 
he  rose,  and  uninterested,  imperturbably  enigmatic  and 
bland,  passed  out  of  sight  around  the  laurels. 

Crowder,  on  the  bench,  slipped  down  to  a  comfortable 
angle  and  thought.  There  was  no  doubt  now — but  what 
the  devil  did  it  mean?  A  concealed  hoard  hidden  under 
the  floor  of  a  men's  lodging  house — that  could  only  be 
stolen  money.  Where  had  he  stolen  it  from?  Was  he 
some  kind  of  gentleman  burglar,  such  as  plays  and  novels 
had  been  built  around?  It  was  a  plausible  explanation. 
He  looked  the  part  so  well ;  lots  of  swagger  and  side,  and 
the  whole  thing  a  trifle  overdone.  What  a  story !  Crow- 
der licked  his  lips  over  it,  seeing  it  splashed  across  the 
front  page.  At  that  moment  the  parcel  Jim  had  given 
him  slipped  off  his  knee  to  the  ground. 

He  had  forgotten  it,  and  a  little  shamefaced — for  your 
true  detective  studies  the  details  before  formulating  his 
theory — picked  it  up  and  opened  it.  Inside  a  newspaper, 
its  outer  sheets  mud-stained  and  torn,  were  six  small  bags 
of  white  canvas,  marked  with  a  stenciled  "W.  F.  &  Co." 
Crowder  sat  erect  and  brushed  back  his  pendent  lock  of 
hair.  He  knew  what  the  stenciled  letters  stood  for  as 
well  as  he  knew  his  own  initials.  Then  he  spread  out  the 
paper.  It  was  the  Sacramento  Courier  of  August 
From  the  top  of  a  column  the  heading  of  his  own  San 
Francisco  letter  faced  him,  the  bottom  part  torn  away 

248 


What  Jim  Saw 


But  that  did  not  interest  him.  It  was  the  date  that 
held  his  eye — August  25 — that  was  last  summer — August 
25,  Wells  Fargo — he  muttered  it  over,  staring  at  the 
paper,  his  glance  glassily  fixed  in  the  intensity  of  his  men- 
tal endeavor. 

Round  date  and  name  his  memory  circled,  drawing 
toward  a  focus,  curving  closer  and  closer,  coming  nearer 
in  decreasing  spirals,  finally  falling  on  it.  With  the 
pounce  a  broken  sentence  fell  from  his  lips :  "The  tules ! 
Knapp  and  Garland!" 

For  the  first  moment  of  startled  realization  he  was  so 
surprised  that  he  could  not  see  how  Mayer  was  impli- 
cated. Then  his  mind  leaped  the  gap  from  the  holdup 
in  August  to  that  picturesque  narrative  still  fresh  in  the 
public  mind — Knapp's  story  of  the  robbed  cache.  The 
recollection  came  with  an  impact  that  held  him  breathless ; 
incidents,  details,  dates,  marshaling  themselves  in  a 
corroborating  sequence.  When  he  saw  it  clear,  un- 
rolled before  his  mental  vision  in  a  series  of  events, 
neatly  fitting,  accurately  dovetailed,  he  sat  up  look- 
ing stupidly  about  him  like  a  person  emerging  from 
sleep. 

He  had  work  to  do  at  the  office,  but  on  the  way  there 
stopped  at  the  Express  Company  for  a  word  with  Rob- 
inson, one  of  the.  clerks,  whom  he  knew.  He  wanted  in- 
formation of  any  losses  by  theft  or  accident  sustained 
by  the  company  since  the  middle  of  the  preceding  Au- 
gust. Robinson  promised  to  look  up  the  subject  and 
let  him  know  before  the  closing  hour.  At  six  Crowder 
was  summoned  to  one  of  the  telephone  booths  in  the  city 
room.  Robinson  had  inquired:  during  the  time  specified 
Wells  Fargo  and  Company  had  suffered  but  one  loss. 
This  was  on  the  twenty-sixth  of  August,  when  Knapp  and 
Garland  had  held  up  the  Rocky  Bar  stage  and  taken 

249 


Treasure  and  Trouble  Therewith 

twelve  thousand  dollars  in  coin  consigned  to  the  Green- 
hide  Mine  at  Antelope. 

It  was  Crowder's  habit  to  dine  at  Philip's  Rotisserie 
at  half  past  six.  They  liked  him  at  Philip's.  Madame 
at  her  desk,  fat  and  gray-haired,  with  a  bunch  of  pink 
roses  at  one  elbow  and  a  sleeping  cat  at  the  other,  always 
had  time  for  a  chat  with  "Monsieur  Crowdare."  Even 
Philip  himself,  in  his  chef's  cap  and  apron,  would  emerge 
from  the  kitchen  and  confer  with  the  favored  guest.  But 
tonight  "Monsieur  Crowdare"  had  no  words  for  anyone. 
He  did  no  more  than  nod  to  Madame,  and  Gaston,  the 
waiter,  afterward  told  her  he  had  hardly  looked  at  the 
menu — just  said  bring  anything,  he  didn't  care  what. 
Madame  was  quite  worried  over  it,  hoped  "le  cher  garcon" 
wasn't  sick,  and  comforted  herself  by  thinking  he  might 
be  in  love. 

Never  before  in  his  cheery  existence  had  Crowder  been 
so  excited.  Over  his  unsavored  dinner  he  studied  the 
situation,  planning  his  course.  He  was  resolved  on  one 
point — to  keep  the  rights  of  discovery  for  the  Despatch. 
He  could  manage  this,  making  it  a  condition  when  he 
laid  his  knowledge  before  the  Express  Company  people. 
That  would  be  his  next  move,  and  he  ought  to  do  it  soon ; 
Mayer's  withdrawal  of  the  money  might  indicate  an  in- 
tention of  disappearing.  He  would  go  to  Wells  Fargo 
and  tell  them  what  he  had  found  out,  asking  in  return 
that  the  results  of  their  investigation  should  be  given 
to  him  for  first  publication  in  the  Despatch. 

It  was  a  pity  Mark  wasn't  there — he  didn't  like  acting 
without  Mark.  But  matters  were  moving  too  quickly  now 
to  take  any  chances.  There  was  no  telephone  at  the 
ranch,  or  he  could  have  called  up  long-distance,  and  a 
telegram,  to  be  intelligible,  would  have  to  be  too  explicit. 

250 


What  Jim  Saw 


He  would  write  to  Mark  tomorrow,  or  perhaps  the  next 
day — after  he  had  seen  the  Express  people. 

To  be  secret  as  the  grave  was  the  charge  Crowder  laid 
upon  himself,  but  he  longed  to  let  loose  some  of  the  fer- 
ment that  seethed  within  him,  and  in  his  longing  remem- 
bered the  one  person  to  whom  he  dared  go — Pancha. 
Hers  were  the  legitimate  ears  to  receive  the  racy  tale. 
She  was  not  only  to  be  trusted — a  pal  as  reliable  as  a 
man — but  it  would  cure  her  of  her  infatuation,  effectually 
crush  out  the  passion  that  had  devastated  her. 


CHAPTER    XXVI 
PANCHA  WRITES  A  LETTER 

PANCHA  had  been  much  alone.  Crowder  had  seen 
her  several  times,  the  doctor  had  come,  the  cham- 
bermaid, one  or  two  of  her  confreres  from  the 
theater.  But  there  had  been  long,  dreary  hours  when 
she  had  lain  motionless,  looking  at  the  walls  and  think- 
ing of  her  wrongs.  She  had  gone  over  and  over  the  old 
ground,  trodden  the  weary  round  like  a  squirrel  in  a 
cage,  asked  herself  the  same  questions  and  searched,  tor- 
mented, for  their  answers.  As  the  days  passed  the  weight 
of  her  grievance  grew,  and  her  sick  soul  yearned  to  hit 
back  at  the  man  who  had  so  wantonly  wounded  her. 

Gradually,  from  the  turmoil  an  idea  of  retaliation  was 
churned  into  being.  It  did  not  reach  the  point  of  action 
till  Monday  evening.  Then  it  rose  before  her  imperious, 
a  vengeance,  subtle  and  if  not  complete,  at  least  as  satis- 
fying as  anything  could  be  to  her  sore  heart.  It  was 
that  expression  of  futile  anger  and  poisoned  musings,  an 
anonymous  letter.  She  wrote  it  on  the  pink  note  paper 
which  she  had  bought  to  write  to  Mayer  on.  It  ran  as 
follows : 

DEAR  LADY: 

This  letter  is  to  warn  you.  It  comes  from  a  person  friendly 
to  you  and  who  wants  to  put  you  wise  to  something  you  ought 
to  know.  It's  about  Boye  Mayer,  him  that  goes  to  your  house 
and  is  after  your  sister.  Maybe  you  don't  know  that,  but  / 
do — it's  truth  what  I'm  telling  you  every  word.  He's  no  good. 
Not  the  kind  to  go  round  with  your  kind.  It's  your  sister's 


Pancha  Writes  a  Letter 


money  he  wants.  If  she  had  none  he'd  not  trouble  to  meet 
her  in  the  plaza  opposite  the  Greek  Church.  Watch  out  for 
him — don't  let  her  go  with  him.  Don't  let  her  marry  him  or 
you'll  curse  the  day.  I  know  him  well  and  I  know  he's  bad 
right  through. 

Wishing  you  well, 

FROM  A  FRIEND. 

She  had  written  the  letter  to  Lorry  as  the  elder  sister, 
whose  name  she  had  seen  in  the  papers  and  whom  Crow- 
der  had  described  as  the  intelligent  one  with  brains  and 
character.  Her  woman's  instinct  told  her  that  her  charges 
might  have  no  weight  with  the  younger  girl,  under  the 
spell  of  those  cajoleries  and  blandishments  whose  power 
she  knew  so  well.  With  the  letter  in  her  hand  she  crept 
out  to  the  stairhead  and  called  to  the  clerk  in  the  office 
below.  Gushing  had  not  come  on  duty  yet,  and  it  was 
the  day  man  who  answered  her  summons.  She  asked  him 
to  post  the  letter  that  night,  and  he  promised  to  do  so. 
The  lives  of  the  group  of  which  this  story  tells  were 
drawing  in  to  a  point  of  fusion.  In  the  centripetal 
movement  this  insignificant  incident  had  its  importance. 
The  man  forgot  his  promise,  and  it  was  not  till  the  next 
day  at  lunch  that  he  thought  of  the  letter,  posting  it  on 
his  way  back  to  the  hotel. 

In  her  room  again,  Pancha  dropped  on  the  sofa,  and 
lay  still.  The  exertion  had  taxed  her  strength  and  she 
felt  sick  and  tremulous.  But  she  thought  of  what  she 
had  done  with  a  grim  relish,  savored  like  a  burning  mor- 
sel on  her  tongue,  the  bitter-sweet  of  revenge. 

Here  an  hour  later  Crowder  found  her.  She  was  glad 
to  see  him,  and  told  him  she  was  better,  but  the  doctor 
would  not  let  her  get  up  yet. 

"And  even  if  he  would,"  she  said,  "I  don't  want  to. 
I'm  that  weak,  Charlie,  you  can't  think.  It's  as  if  the 

253 


Treasure  and  Trouble  Therewith 

thing  that  made  me  alive  was  gone,  and  I  was  just  the 
same  as  dead." 

Crowder  thought  he  understood  his  friend  Pancha 
even  as  he  did  his  friend  Mark.  That  she  could  have 
complexities  and  reservations  beyond  his  simple  ken  had 
never  occurred  to  him.  What  he  saw  on  the  surface  was 
what  she  was,  and  being  so,  the  news  he  was  bringing 
would  be  as  a  tonic  to  her  broken  spirit. 

"You'll  not  stay  that  way  long,  Panchita,"  he  said. 
"You'll  be  on  the  job  soon  now.  And  what  I've  come  to 
tell  you  will  help  on  the  good  work.  I  've  got  a  story 
for  you  that'll  straighten  out  all  the  creases  and  bring 
you  up  on  your  feet  better  than  a  steam  derrick  would." 

"What  is  it?"  She  did  not  seem  especially  interested, 
her  glance  listless,  her  hand  lying  languid  where  he  had 
dropped  it. 

"It's  about  Mayer." 

He  was  rewarded  by  seeing  her  shift  her  head  on  the 
pillow  that  she  might  command  him  with  a  vivid,  bird- 
bright  eye. 

"What  about  him?" 

"Everything,  my  dear.  We've  got  him  coming  and 
going.  We've  got  him  dead  to  rights.  He's  a  rogue 
and  a  thief." 

With  her  hands  spread  flat  on  either  side  of  her  she 
raised  herself  to  a  sitting  posture.  Her  face,  framed 
in  its  bush  of  hair,  had  a  look  of  strained,  almost  wild, 
inquiry. 

"Thief!"  she  exclaimed. 

"Yes.  It's  a  honeycooler  of  a  story.  Burst  out  all 
of  a  sudden  like  a  night  blooming  cereus.  But  before 
I  say  a  word  you've  got  to  promise  on  everything  you 
hold  sacred  that  you  won't  breathe  a  word  of  it. 
promise 


Pancha  Writes  a  Letter 


"It's  only  for  a  little  while.  It'll  be  public  property 
in  a  day  or  two — Thursday  or  Friday  maybe." 

"I'm  on.      How  is  he  a  thief?" 

Crowder  told  her.  The  story  was  clear  in  his  head 
by  this  time,  and  he  told  it  well,  with  the  journalist's 
sense  of  its  drama.  As  he  spoke  she  drew  up  her  knees 
and  clasping  her  hands  round  them  sat  rigid,  now  and 
then  as  she  met  his  eyes,  raised  to  hers  to  see  if  she  had 
caught  a  point,  nodding  and  breathing  a  low,  "I  see — 
Go  on." 

When  he  had  finished  he  looked  at  her  with  challeng- 
ing triumph. 

"Well— isn't  it  all  I  said  it  was?" 

Already  she  showed  the  effect  of  it.  There  was  color 
in  her  face,  a  dusky  red  on  the  high  cheek  bones. 

"Yes — more.      I  didn't  think "      She  stopped  and 

|  swallowed,  her  throat  dry. 

"Did  you  have  the  least  idea,  did  he  ever  say  a  word 
to  suggest  he  had  anything  as  juicy  as  that  in  the  back- 
ground ?" 

"No.  I  can't  remember  all  in  a  minute.  But  he  never 
said  much  about  himself;  he  was  always  asking  about 
ne."  She  paused,  fixedly  staring ;  then  her  glance,  razor- 
iharp,  swerved  to  the  young  man.  "Will  he  go  to  jail?" 
You  bet  he  will.  I'm  not  sure  on  just  what  count, 
they'll  find  one  that'll  fit  his  case.  He's  as  much 
i  thief  as  either  Knapp  or  Garland.  He  knew  it  wasn't 
Captain  Kidd's  treasure;  he  saw  the  papers.  He  can't 
)lay  the  baby  act  about  being  ignorant.  The  way  he 
lid  his  loot  proves  that." 

"Yes,"  she  murmured.  "He's  a  thief  all  right.  He's 
>ad  every  way." 

"That's  what  I  wanted  you  to  see.  That's  why  I  told 
rou.  You  can't  go  on  caring  now." 

255 


«" 


Treasure  and  Trouble  Therewith 


"No."  Her  voice  was  very  low.  "It  puts  the  lid  or 
that." 

"You  can  thank  God  on  your  bended  knees  he  thre\* 
you  down." 

"Oh,  yes,"  she  rocked  her  head  slightly  from  side  to  side 
with  an  air  of  morose  defiance,  "I  can." 

"Do  you?"  said  the  young  man,  leaning  closer  anc 
looking  into  her  face. 

He  was  satisfied  by  what  he  saw.  For  a  moment  th< 
old  pride  flamed  up,  a  spark  in  the  black  glance,  a 
haughty  straightening  of  the  neck. 

"A  common  thief  like  him  for  my  lover?  Say,  yoi 
know  me,  Charlie.  I'd  have  killed  myself,  or  maybe  I'c 
have  killed  him." 

Crowder  had  what  he  would  have  called  "a  hunch"  thai 
this  might  be  true.  From  his  heart  he  exclaimed : 

"Gee,  I'm  glad  it's  turned  out  the  way  it  has !" 

"So  am  I.  Only  I'm  sorry  for  one  thing.  It's  yo 
that  have  caught  him,  not  me." 

Crowder  laughed. 

"You  Indian!"  he  said.     "You  red,  revengeful  devil!' 

"Oh,  I'm   that!"  she  answered,  with  biting  emphasi 
"When  I  get  a  blow  I  want  to  give  one.     I  don't  turn  th< 
other  cheek;  I  strike  back — with  a  knife  if  I  have  om 
handy." 

"Well,  don't  you  bother  about  knives  now.  The  hit 
ting's  going  to  be  done  for  you.  All  you  have  to  do  i 
to  sit  still,  like  a  perfect  lady,  and  say  nothing." 

"Um."  She  paused,  mused  an  instant,  and  then  said 
"You're  sure  you  can't  be  mistaken?" 

"Positive.  Funny,  isn't  it?  It  was  the  paper  tha 
gave  me  the  lead.  Sort  of  poetic  justice  his  being  lande< 
by  that — the  paper  that  had  the  article  about  you  ii 
it." 

256 


Pancha  Writes  a  Letter 


She  looked  at  him,  struck  with  a  sudden  idea : 
"Perhaps  it  was  that  article  that  made  him  come  to 
see  me  in  the  beginning." 
Crowder  smiled. 

"I  guess  he  wasn't  bothering  about  articles  just  then. 
He'd  used  it  to  wrap  the  money  in.  It  was  all  muddy 
and  ragged,  the  lower  half  of  the  letter  gone — the  piece 
about  you — got  torn  out  by  accident  I  guess.  As  I  see 
t  he  happened  to  have  the  paper  and  when  he  got  the 
sacks  out  of  the  ground,  put  some  of  'em  in  it.  Then 
fvhen  he  was  in  the  Whatcheer  House  he  stuffed  it  in  the 
hole  under  the  floor.  It  was  the  handiest  way  to  get  rid 
•f  it." 

Soon  after  that  Crowder  left,  feeling  that  he  had  done 
good  work.  The  news  had  had  the  effect  he  had  hoped 
t  would.  She  was  a  different  girl.  The  last  glimpse  of 
ler,  sitting  in  that  same  attitude  with  her  hands  clasped 
*ound  her  knees,  showed  her  revitalized,  alive  once  more, 
;vith  something  of  the  old  brown  and  red  vividness  in  her 
'ace. 

When  he  had  gone  she  remembered  her  letter.  It  was 
f  no  use  now.  She  would  have  liked  to  recall  it,  but 
b  was  too  late;  the  clock  on  the  table  marked  eleven. 
Through  the  fitful  sleep  of  her  uneasy  night  it  came  back, 
nvested  by  the  magnifying  power  of  dreams  with  a  fan- 
astic  malignity;  in  waking  moments  showing  as  a  bit  of 
pite,  dwindled  to  nothing  before  the  forces  gathering  for 
Mayer's  destruction. 


O 


CHAPTER    XXVII 

BAD  NEWS 

LD  MAN  HALEY'S   shack    stood  ba( 
branch   road   that  wound   down   from   Antelope 
across  the  foothills  to  Pine  Flat.      Commercial 
travelers,  staging  it  from  camp  to  camp,  could  see  his 
roof  over  the  trees,  and  sometimes  the  driver  would  point 
to  it  with  his  whip  and  tell  how  the  old  man — a  sur- 
vival of  the  early  days — lived  there  alone  cultivating  his 
vegetable  patch.      In  the  last  four  or  five  years  people 
said  he  had  gone  "nutty,"  had  taken  to  wandering  down 
the  stream  beds  with  his  pickax  and  pan,  but  he  was 
harmless  old  body  and  seemed  able  to  get  along.     He  sai< 
he  had  a  son  somewhere  who  sent  him  money  now  an< 
again,  and  he  always  had  enough  to  keep  himself  in 
ceries  and  tobacco,  which  he  bought  at  the  general  store  ii 
Pine  Flat.     Maybe  you'd  see  him  straying  along,  sort 
kind  and  simple,  with  his  pick  over  his  shoulder,  smilin' 
up  at  the  folks  in  the  stage. 

On  that  Sunday  when  Mayer  had  made  his  last  trip  to 
Sacramento  Old  Man  Haley  had  risen  with  the  sun. 
While  the  rest  of  the  world  was  slumbering  on  its  pillow 
he  was  out  among  his  vegetables,  hoe  in  hand. 

It  was  one  of  those  mornings  that  deck  with  a  splendor 
of  blue  and  gold  the  foothill  spring.     The  air  was  balmy, 
the  sky  a  fleckless  vault,  where  bird  shapes  floated  01 
aerial  currents   or   sped  in  jubilant  flight.       From  th< 
chaparral   came   the    scents    of   sun-warmed   foliage,   the 
pungent  odor  of  bay,  the  aromatic  breath  of  pine,  and 

258 


Bad  News 


le  sweet,  frail  perfume  of  the  chaparral  flower.  This 
ecked  the  hillside  with  its  powdery  blossom,  a  white  blur 
mong  the  glittering  enamel  of  madrona  leaves. 

Old  Man  Haley,  an  ancient  figure  in  his  rusty  overalls, 
aused  in  his  labor  to  survey  the  sea  of  green  from  which 
B  had  wrested  his  garden.  His  eye  traveled  slowly, 
)r  he  loved  it,  and  had  grown  to  regard  it  as  his  own. 
eaning  on  his  hoe  he  looked  upward  over  its  tufted  den- 
ty  and  suddenly  his  glance  lost  its  complacent  vague- 
ess  and  became  sharp  and  fixed.  Through  the  close- 
acked  vegetation  a  zigzag  movement  descended  as  if  a 
ssure  of  earth  disturbance  was  stirring  along  the  roots, 
fter  a  moment's  scrutiny  he  turned  and  sent  a  look, 
ngularly  alert,  over  the  shack  and  the  road  beyond, 
'hen,  pursing  his  lips,  he  emitted  a  whistled  bar  of  bird 
stes. 

The   commotion  in  the   chaparral  stopped,   and   from 

rose  a  wild  figure.  It  looked  more  ape  than  man,  hairy, 
warded  to  the  cheekbones,  sunken-eyed  and  staggering. 
;  started  forward  at  a  run,  branches  crashing  under  its 
undering  feet,  and  as  it  came  it  sent  up  a  hoarse  cry 
•r  food. 

Some  years  before  Old  Man  Haley  had  built  a  wood- 
icd  behind  the  cabin.  When  he  bought  the  planks  he 
id  told  "the  boys"  in  Pine  Flat  that  he  was  getting 
o  old  to  forage  for  his  wood  in  winter,  and  was  going 

cut  it  in  summer,  and  have  it  handy  when  the  rains 
,me.  He  had  built  the  shed  well  and  lined  it  with  tar 
tper.  Adventurous  youngsters,  going  past  one  day, 
.d  peeped  in  and  seen  a  blanket  spread  over  the  stacked 
&s  as  if  the  old  man  might  have  been  sleeping  there ; 
lich,  being  reported,  was  set  down  to  his  craziness. 
Here  Garland  now  hid,  ate  like  a  famished  wolf,  and 
rpt.  Then  when  night  came,  and  all  wayfarers  were 

259 


Treasure  and  Trouble  Therewith 

safe  indoors,  stole  to  the  shack,  and  with  only  the  red 
eye  of  the  stove  to  light  their  conference,  exchanged  the 
news  with  his  confederate.  Hunger  had  driven  him  back 
to  the  settlements;  four  days  before  his  last  cartridge 
had  been  spent,  and  he  had  lived  since  then  on  berries 
and  roots.  Old  Man  Haley,  squatting  in  the  rocking- 
chair  made  from  a  barrel,  whispered  cheering  intelligence : 
they'd  about  given  up  the  hunt,  thought  he  had  died  in 
the  chaparral.  Someone  had  seen  birds  circling  round  a 
spot  off  toward  the  hills  behind  Angels. 

The  next  day  when  Garland  told  his  intention  of  mov- 
ing on  to  San  Francisco,  the  old  man  was  uneasy.  He 
was  the  only  associate  of  the  bandit  who  knew  of  the 
daughter  there,  and  he  urged  patience  and  caution.  He 
was  even  averse  to  taking  a  letter  to  her  when  he  went 
into  Pine  Flat  for  supplies.  The  post  office  was  the  re- 
sort of  loungers.  If  they  saw  Old  Man  Haley  coming 
in  to  mail  a  letter,  they'd  get  curious ;  you  couldn't  tell 
but  what  they  might  wrastle  with  him  and  grab  the  letter. 
In  a  day  or  two  maybe  he  could  get  into  Mormons  Land- 
ing, where  he  wasn't  so  well  known,  and  mail  it  there.  To 
placate  Garland  he  promised  him  a  paper;  the  man  at 
the  store  would  give  him  one. 

When  he  came  back  in  the  rosy  end  of  the  evening 
he  was  exultant.  A  woman,  hearing  him  ask  the  store- 
keeper for  a  paper,  had  told  him  to  stop  at  her  house 
and  she  would  give  him  a  roll  of  them.  There  they  were, 
a  big  bundle,  and  not  local  ones,  but  the  San  Francisco 
Despatch  almost  to  date.  He  left  Garland  in  the  wood- 
shed, reading  by  the  light  that  fell  in  through  the  open 
door,  and  went  to  the  shack  to  cook  supper. 

Presently  a  reek  of  blue  smoke  was  issuing  from  the 
crook  of  pipe  above  the  roof,  and  wood  was  crackling 
in  the  stove.  Old  Man  Haley,  mindful  of  his  guest's  dig- 

260 


As  it  came  it  sent  up  a  hoarse  cry  for  food. 


Bad  News 


nities  and  claims  upon  himself,  set  about  the  preparation 
of  a  goodly  meal,  part  drawn  from  his  own  garden,  part 
from  the  packages  he  had  carried  back  from  Pine  Flat. 
He  was  engrossed  in  it,  when,  through  the  sizzling  of 
frying  grease,  he  heard  the  sound  of  footsteps  and  the 
doorway  was  darkened  by  Garland's  bulk.  In  his  hand 
he  held  a  paper,  and  even  the  age-dimmed  eyes  of  the  old 
man  could  see  the  pallid  agitation  of  his  face. 

"My  daughter!"  he  cried,  shaking  the  paper  at  Haley. 
"She's  sick  in  Francisco — I  seen  it  here!  I  got  to 
go!" 

There  was  no  arguing  with  him,  and  Old  Man  Haley 
knew  it.  He  helped  to  the  full  extent  of  his  capacity, 
set  food  before  the  man,  and  urged  him  to  eat,  dis- 
suaded him  from  a  move  till  after  nightfall,  and  provided 
him  with  money  taken  from  a  hiding-place  behind  the 
stove. 

Then  together  they  worked  out  his  route  to  the  coast. 
The  first  stage  would  be  from  there  to  the  Dormer  Ranch 
where  he  had  friends.  They'd  victual  him  and  give  him 
clothes,  for  even  Garland,  reckless  with  anxiety,  did  not 
dare  show  himself  in  the  open  as  he  now  was,  a  figure 
to  catch  the  attention  of  the  most  unsuspicious.  He 
would  have  to  keep  to  the  woods  and  the  trails  till  he 
got  to  Dormer's,  and  it  would  be  a  long  hike — all  that 
night  and  part  of  the  next  day.  They  would  give  him 
a  mount  and  he  could  strike  across  country  and  tap  the 
railroad  at  some  point  below  Sacramento,  making  San 
Francisco  that  night. 

The  dark  had  settled,  clearly  deep,  when  he  left.  There 
were  stars  in  the  sky,  only  a  few,  very  large  and  far 
apart,  and  by  their  light  he  could  see  the  road  between 
the  black  embankment  of  shrubs.  It  was  extremely  still 
as  he  stole  down  from  the  shack,  Old  Man  Haley  watch- 

261 


Treasure  and  Trouble  Therewith 

ing  from  the  doorway.  It  continued  very  still  as  he 
struck  into  his  stride,  no  sound  coming  from  the  detail- 
less  darkness.  Its  quiet  suggested  that  same  tense  ex- 
pectancy, that  breathless  waiting,  he  had  noticed  under 
the  big  trees. 


CHAPTER    XXVIII 

CHRYSTIE  SEES  THE  DAWN 

NO  shadow  of  impending  disaster  fell  across  Mayer's 
path.  On  the  Monday  morning  he  rose  feeling 
more  confident,  lighter  in  heart,  than  he  had  done 
since  he  met  Burrage.  It  had  been  a  relief  to  put  an 
end  to  the  Sacramento  business ;  Chrystie  had  been  amen- 
able to  his  suggestion ;  the  weather  was  fine ;  his  affairs 
were  moving  smoothly  to  their  climax.  As  he  dressed  he 
expanded  his  chest  with  calisthenic  exercises  and  even 
warbled  a  little  French  song. 

He  was  out  by  ten — an  early  hour  for  him — and  he 
fared  along  the  street  pleasantly  aware  of  the  exhilarat- 
ing sunshine,  the  blueness  of  the  bay,  the  tang  of  salty 
freshness  in  the  air.  The  hours  till  lunch  were  to  be 
spent  in  completing  the  arrangements  for  the  flight.  At 
the  railway  office  he  bought  the  two  passage  tickets  to 
Reno,  his  own  section  and  Chrystie's  stateroom,  and  even 
the  amount  of  money  he  had  to  disburse  did  not  diminish 
his  sense  of  a  prospering  good  fortune. 

From  there  he  went  to  the  office  of  the  man  who  owed 
him  the  gambling  debt  and  encountered  a  check.  The 
gentleman  had  gone  to  the  country  on  Friday  and  would 
not  be  back  till  Wednesday  morning  at  ten.  A  politely 
positive  clerk  assured  him  no  letter  or  message  had  been 
left  for  Mr.  Mayer,  and  a  telegram  received  that  morn-^ 
ing  had  shown  his  employer  to  be  far  afield  on  the  Mac- 
leod  River. 

Mayer  left  the  office  with  a  set,  yellowish  face.  The 

263 


Treasure  and  Trouble  Therewith 

disappointment  would  have  irritated  him  at  any  time; 
now  coming  unexpected  on  his  eased  assurance  it  en- 
raged him.  For  an  hour  he  paced  the  streets  trying  to 
decide  what  to  do.  Of  course  he  could  go  and  leave  the 
money,  write  a  letter  to  have  it  sent  after  him.  But  he 
doubted  whether  his  creditor  would  do  it,  and  he  needed 
.every  cent  he  could  get.  His  plan  of  conquest  of  Chrys- 
tie  included  a  luxurious  background,  a  wealth  of  costly 
detail.  He  did  not  see  himself  winning  her  to  complete 
subjugation  without  a  plentiful  spending  fund.  He  had 
told  her  they  would  go  North  from  Reno  and  travel 
eastward  by  the  Canadian  Pacific,  stopping  at  points 
of  interest  along  the  road.  He  imagined  his  courtship 
progressing  in  grandiose  suites  of  rooms  wherein  were 
served  delicate  meals,  his  generous  largesse  to  obsequious 
hirelings  adding  to  her  dazzled  approval.  He  had  to 
have  that  money ;  he  couldn't  go  without  it ;  he  had  set 
it  aside  to  deck  with  fitting  ceremonial  the  conquering 
bridal  tour. 

He  stopped  at  a  telegraph  office  and  wrote  her  a  note 
telling  her  to  meet  him  that  afternoon  at  three  in  the 
old  place  opposite  the  Greek  Church.  This  he  sent  by 
messenger  and  then  he  pondered  a  rearrangement  of  his 
plans.  He  would  only  have  to  shift  their  departure  on 
a  few  hours — say  till  Wednesday  noon.  He  had  heard 
at  the  railway  office  there  was  a  slow  local  for  Reno  at 
midday.  They  could  take  this,  and  though  it  was  a 
day  train  there  would  be  little  chance  of  their  being 
noticed,  as  the  denizens  of  Chrystie's  world  and  his  own 
always  traveled  by  the  faster  Overland  Flyer. 

As  he  saw  her  approaching  across  the  plaza  his  un- 
easy eye  discerned  from  afar  the  fact  that  she  was  per- 
turbed. Her  face  was  anxious,  her  long  swinging  step 
even  more  rapid  than  usual.  And,  "Oh,  Boye!"  she 

264 


Chrystie  Sees  the  Dawn 


grasped  as  they  met  and  their  hands  clasped.  "Has  any- 
thing happened?" 

It  was  not  a  propitious  frame  of  mind,  and  he  drew 
one  of  her  hands  through  his  arm,  pressing  the  fingers 
against  his  side  as  they  walked  toward  the  familiar  bench. 
There  gently,  very  gently,  he  acquainted  her  with  the 
version  of  the  situation  he  had  rehearsed:  a  business 
matter — she  wouldn't  understand — but  something  of  a 
good  deal  of  importance  had  unfortunately  been  post- 
poned from  that  afternoon  till  Wednesday  morning.  It 
was  extremely  Annoying — in  fact,  maddening,  but  he 
didn't  see  how  it  was  to  be  avoided.  She  looked  horri- 
fied. 

"Then  what  are  we  to  do — put  it  off?" 

"Yes,  until  Wednesday  at  noon.  There's  a  slow  train 
we  can  get.  There's  no  use  waiting  till  evening." 

She  turned  on  him  aghast. 

"But  the  Barlows?  What  am  I  to  do  about  them? 
I've  told  Lorry  I  was  going  there  on  Tuesday." 

"Darling  girl,  that's  very  simple.  You've  had  a  letter 
to  say  they  don't  want  you  till  Wednesday." 

"But,  Boye,"  she  sat  erect,  staring  distressfully  at  him, 
"I've  told  Lorry  the  party  was  on  Tuesday  night.  That's 
what  they've  asked  me  for.  Now  how  can  I  say  they 
don't  want  me?" 

He  bit  his  lip  to  keep  down  his  anger.  Why  had  he 
allowed  her  to  do  anyihwg — why  hadn't  he  written  it  all 
down  in  words  of  one  syllable  ? 

"We'll  have  to  think  of  some  reason  for  a  change 
in  their  plans.  Why  couldn't  they  have  postponed  the 
party?" 

"Even  if  they  did  they  wouldn't  postpone  me.  I  go 
there  often,  they're  old  friends,  it  doesn't  matter  when  I 


265 


Treasure  and  Trouble  Therewith 

Her  voice  had  a  quavering  note,  new  to  him,  and  ex- 
tremely alarming. 

"Dearest,  don't  get  worked  up  over  it,"  he  said  ten- 
derly. 

"Worked  up!"  she  exclaimed.  "Wouldn't  any  girl  be 
worked  up?  It's  awfuil  for  a  person  in  my  position  to 
elope.  It's  all  very  well  for  you  who  just  go  and  come 
as  you  please,  but  for  me — I  believe  if  I  was  in  prison 
I  could  get  out  easier." 

He  caught  her  hand  and  pressed  it  between  his 
own. 

"Of  course,  it's  hard  for  you.  No  one  knows  that 
better  than  I,  and  that  you  should  do  it  makes  me  love 
you  more — if  that's  possible."  He  raised  the  hand  to 
his  lips,  kissed  it  softly  and  dropped  it.  "I  know  how 
you  can  manage — it's  as  easy  as  possible.  Say  you  have 
a  headache,  a  splitting  headache,  and  can't  take  the  rail- 
way trip,  but  rather  than  disappoint  them  you'll  go  down 
the  next  day." 

She  drew  her  hand  out  of  his,  and  said  in  a  stubborn 
voice : 

"No.      I  don't  want  to." 

"Why?  Now  why,  darling?  What's  wrong  about 
that?" 

"I  won't  tell  any  more  lies  to  Lorry." 

He  looked  at  her,  and  saw  her  flushed,  mutinous,  tears 
standing  in  her  eyes. 

"But,  dearest " 

She  cut  him  off,  her  voice  suddenly  breaking: 

"I  can't  do  it.  I  didn't  know  it  was  going  to  be  so 
dreadful.  But  I  can't  look  at  Lorry  and  tell  her  any 
more  lies.  I  wont.  It  makes  me  sick.  It's  asking  too 
much,  Boye.  There's  something  hateful  about  it." 

Her  underlip  quivered,  drew  in  like  a  child's.  With 

266 


Chrystie  Sees  the  Dawn 


a  shaking  hand  she  began  fumbling  about  her  belt  for  her 
handkerchief. 

"Sometimes  I  feel  as  if  I  was  doing  wrong,"  she  fal- 
tered. "I  love  you,  I've  told  you  so — but — but — Lorry's 
not  like  anybody  else — anyway  to  me.  And  to  keep  on 
telling  her  what  isn't  true  makes  me  feel — like — like — a 
yellow  dog!'9 

The  last  words  came  on  a  breaking  sob,  and  the  hand- 
kerchief went  up  to  her  face.  Mayer  was  frightened.  A 
quick  glance  round  the  plaza  showed  him  no  one  was  in 
sight,  and  he  threw  his  arm  about  her  and  drew  the  weep- 
ing head  down  to  his  shoulder.  Though  the  green  para- 
dise plume  was  in  the  way  and  his  fear  of  passersby 
acute,  he  was  still  sufficiently  master  of  himself  to  soothe 
with  words  of  beguiling  sweetness. 

While  he  did  it,  his  free  hand  holding  the  paradise 
plume  out  of  his  face,  his  eye  nervously  ranging  the 
prospect,  his  mind  ran  over  ways  to  meet  the  difficulty. 
By  the  time  Chrystie  had  conquered  her  tears,  and,  with 
a  creaking  of  tight-drawn  silks,  was  sitting  upright 
again,  he  had  hit  on  a  solution  and  was  ready  to  broach 
it. 

"Well,  then,  we'll  rule  out  any  more  lies  as  you  call 
them.  You  won't  have  to  say  another  word  to  Lorry. 
We  can  go  on  just  as  we'd  planned." 

"How?"  she  asked,  in  a  stopped-up  voice,  dabbing  at 
her  eyes  with  the  handkerchief. 

"You  can  leave  on  Tuesday  afternoon  at  the  same 
time  and  go  to  a  hotel." 

"A  hotel!"  She  stopped  dabbing,  extremely  sur- 
prised, as  if  he  had  suggested  going  to  something  she 
had  never  heard  of  before. 

"Yes,  not  one  of  the  big  ones;  a  quiet  place  where 
you're  not  liable  to  run  into  anyone  who  may  recognize 

267 


Treasure  and  Trouble  Therewith 

you.  I  know  of  the  very  thing,  not  long  opened,  in  the 
Mission.  You  leave  for  the  train  as  you  intended,  but 
instead  of  going  to  the  ferry,  you  go  there.  I'll  take 
the  rooms  for  you.  All  you'll  have  to  do  will  be  to 
write  your  name  in  the  book — say,  Miss  Brown — and 
go  up  to  your  apartment.  Order  your  dinner  up  there 
and  your  breakfast  the  next  morning.  I'll  have  a  cab 
sent  round  for  you  at  half-past  eleven  that'll  take  you 
straight  to  the  ferry,  and  I'll  send  your  tickets  and 
trunk  check  to  your  rooms  before  that.  There'll  be 
nothing  for  you  to  do  but  cross  on  the  boat  and  go  into 
your  stateroom  on  the  train." 

This  was  all  very  smooth  and  clear.  It  was  proof 
of  Chrystie's  unpractical  trend  of  thought  that  her  com- 
ment was  an  uneasy, 

"A  hotel  in  the  Mission?" 

"Yes,  a  new  place,  very  quiet  and  decent.  I  heard 
of  it  from  some  people  who  are  living  there.  I'll  not 
come  to  see  you,  but  I'll  phone  over  in  the  evening  and 
find  out  how  you're  getting  on.  And  the  next  morning 
I'll  be  on  the  platform  at  Oakland,  watching  out  for 
you." 

"But  you  won't  speak  to  me?" 

"Not  then.  In  the  train  we  might  meet — just  acci- 
dentally run  into  one  another.  And  you'll  say,  'Why, 
there's  Mr.  Mayer!  How  odd.  How  d'ye  do,  Mr. 
Mayer.' '  He  bowed  with  a  mincing  imitation  of  Chrys- 
tie's best  society  manner.  "  'I  didn't  expect  to  see  you 
here.'  " 

She  laughed  delightedly,  nestling  against  his  shoul- 
der. 

"Will  that  be  all?      Can  I  say  any  more?" 

"Not  much.  It  will  be  only  a  greeting  as  we  pass 
each  other:  'So  glad  to  see  you,  Miss  Alston.  Going 


Chrystie  Sees  the  Dawn 


up  to  Reno  for  a  short  stay.  See  you  in  town  soon; 
again,  I  hope.'  And  then  you  to  your  stateroom  and 
me  in  my  section,  both  of  us  looking  out  of  the  window 
as  if  we  were  bored." 

They  both  laughed,  lovers  again.  He  was  as  re- 
lieved as  she  was.  After  all  it  might  turn  out  the  better 
plan.  He  could  keep  his  eye  on  her,  watch  for  signs 
of  distress  or  mutiny  and  be  ready  with  the  comforting 
word.  He  had  to  take  some  risk,  and  it  was  better  to 
take  that  of  being  seen  than  that  of  leaving  her  a  prey 
to  her  own  disintegrating  musings.  Chrystie  thought  it 
was  a  great  deal  better  than  the  other  way.  She  saw 
herself  in  the  train,  conscious  of  him,  knowing  he  was 
there,  and  pretending  not  to  care.  She  felt  uplifted  on 
the  wings  of  romance,  heard  the  air  around  her  stirred 
by  the  beating  of  those  rainbow  pinions. 

The  thrill  of  it  lasted  until  dinner,  then  began  to  die 
away.  Her  home  and  the  familiar  surroundings  pressed 
upon  her  attention  like  live  things  insisting  on  recog- 
nition. The  trivial  talk  round  the  table  took  on  the 
poignancy  of  matters  already  in  the  past.  The  night 
before  Fong,  on  his  way  back  from  Chinatown,  had  found 
a  deserted  kitten  and  brought  it  home  announcing  his 
intention  to  adopt  it  and  call  it  George  Washington. 
Lorry  and  Aunt  Ellen  made  merry  over  it,  but  Chrystie 
couldn't.  The  kitten  would  grow  from  youth  to  ma- 
turity, and  she  not  be  there  to  see.  It  took  its  place 
in  her  mind  as  something  belonging  to  a  vanished  phase, 
having  the  cherished  value  of  a  memory. 

Finally,  Lorry  noticed  her  silence,  and  wanted  to  know 
if  anything  was  the  matter.  She  was  pale  and  had 
hardly  eaten  a  bite.  Aunt  Ellen  arraigned  the  Spring  as 
a  malign  influence,  and  suggested  quinine.  Chrystie 
snapped  at  her,  and  said  she  wouldn't  take  quinine  if 

269 


Treasure  and  Trouble  Therewith 

she  was  dying.  Thus  warned  away,  Lorry  and  Aunt 
Ellen  left  her  alone  and  made  Summer  plans  together. 
Lake  Tahoe  for  July  and  August  was  taking  shape  in 
Lorry's  mind.  July  and  August !  Where  would  she  be  ? 
Boye  had  said  something  about  Europe,  and  at  the  time 
it  had  seemed  to  her  the  ultima  Tliule  of  her  dreams. 
Now  it  looked  as  far  away  as  the  moon  and  as  inhospi- 
table. 

The  inner  excitement  of  the  next  day  carried  her  over 
qualms  and  yearnings — the  beating  of  the  rainbow  pinions 
was  again  in  her  ears. 

In  the  morning  she  went  to  the  bank  and  drew  five  hun- 
dred dollars.  She  must  have  some  money  of  her  own,  and 
when  she  reached  New  York  she  would  want  clothes.  It 
was  unfortunate  that  while  she  was  making  holes  in  her 
trunk  to  pack  it,  Lorry  should  have  come  in  and  seen  more 
than  half  of  it  stacked  on  the  bureau.  That  necessi- 
tated more  lies,  and  Chrystie  told  them  with  desperation. 
It  was  to  pay  people,  of  course,  milliners  and  dressmak- 
ers— she  owed  a  lot,  and  as  she  was  passing  the  bank 
she'd  drawn  it  in  a  lump. 

Lorry  was  disapproving — her  sister's  carelessness  about 
money  always  shocked  her — and  offered  to  take  charge 
of  it  till  Chrystie  came  back.  There  had  to  be  another 
crop  of  lies,  and  Chrystie's  face  was  beaded  with  per- 
spiration, her  voice  shaking,  as  she  bent  over  her  trunk. 
She'd  lock  it  in  her  desk,  it  would  be  all  right — and 
please  go  away  and  don't  bother — the  expressman  might 
be  here  any  minute  now. 

She  had  a  hope  that  Lorry  would  go  out  in  the  after- 
noon, and  she  could  get  away  unobserved,  but  the  faith- 
ful sister  persisted  in  staying  to  see  her  off.  That  was 
dreadful.  Bag  in  hand,  a  lace  veil — to  be  lowered  later 
— pushed  back  across  her  hat,  she  had  tried  to  get  the 

270 


Chrystie  Sees  the  Dawn 


good-by  over  in  the  hall,  but  Lorry  had  followed  her 
out  to  the  steps.  There  in  the  revealing  daylight 
the  elder  sister's  smiles  had  died  away,  and  scrutiniz- 
ing the  face  under  the  jaunty  hat,  she  had  said  sharp- 

ly 

"Is  anything  the  matter,  Chrystie?  You  know,  you 
look  quite  ill.  Are  you  sure  you  feel  well?" 

It  brought  up  a  crowding  line  of  memories — Lorry 
concerned,  vigilant,  always  watching  over  her  with  that 
anxious  tenderness.  A  surge  of  emotion  rose  in  the 
girl  and  she  snatched  her  sister  to  her,  kissed  her  with 
a  sudden  passion,  then  ran. 

"Good-by,  good-by,"  she  called  out  as  she  flew  down 
the  steps  to  the  waiting  carriage. 

Her  eyes  were  blinded,  and  she  was  afraid  to  look  back 
for  fear  Lorry  might  see  the  tears.  She  waved  a  hand, 
then  crouched  in  the  corner  of  the  seat  and  spied  out 
of  the  little  rear  window.  She  could  see  Lorry  on  the 
top  step  watching  the  carriage,  her  face  grave,  her  brows 
low-drawn  in  a  frown. 

The  thrill  came  back  when  she  dismissed  the  cab  at 
the  door  of  the  hotel.  As  she  walked  up  the  entrance 
hall  it  was  as  if  she  was  walking  into  the  first  chapter 
of  a  novel — a  novel  of  which  she  was  the  heroine.  And 
as  Boye  had  said,  it  was  all  very  easy — she  was  expected, 
everything  was  ready.  A  bellboy  snatched  her  bag,  and 
the  elevator  whisked  her  up  to  her  rooms,  suite  38,  third 
floor  rear. 

They  seemed  to  her  very  uninviting;  a  parlor  with 
crimson  plush  furniture,  smelling  of  varnish  and  open- 
ing into  a  bedroom.  The  blinds  were  down,  and  when 
the  boy  had  left  she  went  to  the  window  and  threw  it 
up,  letting  light  and  air  into  the  stuffy,  unfriendly  place. 
That  was  better  and  she  leaned  out,  breathing  in  the 


Treasure  and  Trouble  Therewith 

balmy  freshness,  catching  a  whiff  from  gardens  bloom- 
ing bravely  between  the  crowding  walls. 

She  stayed  there  for  some  time,  staring  about,  to  the 
left  where  the  bay  shone  blue  beyond  the  roofs,  to  the 
right  where  on  the  flanks  of  the  Mission  hills  she  could 
see  the  city's  distant  outposts,  white  dottings  of  houses, 
and  here  and  there  the  gleam  of  a  tin  roof  touched  by 
the  low  sun.  The  nearby  prospect  was  not  attractive 
— what  one  might  expect  in  the  Mission.  Only  a  nar- 
row crevice  separated  the  hotel  wall  from  the  next  house, 
whose  yard  stretched  below  her,  crossed  with  clothes  lines, 
the  plants  and  shrubs  showing  a  pale  green,  elongated 
growth  in  their  efforts  to  reach  the  sunlight.  Pier 
down-drooped  glance  ranged  over  it  with  disfavor,  and 
she  idly  wondered  what  kind  of  people  lived  there.  It 
had  once  been  a  sort  of  detached  villa ;  she  could  trace 
the  remains  of  walks  and  flower  beds,  and  the  shed  in  the 
back  had  a  broken  weather  vane  on  the  roof — it  must 
have  been  a  stable. 

She  leaned  out  on  her  folded  arms  till  the  flare  of 
sunset  blazed  on  the  westward  windows,  then  sank 
through  a  burning  decline  into  grayness  and  the  night. 
The  fiery  windows  grew  blank  and  chains  of  lamps 
marked  the  lines  of  the  streets.  Then  she  turned  back 
to  the  room,  dark  behind  her,  yawning  like  a  cavern. 
She  lighted  the  lights  and  sat  in  a  stiff-backed  rocking- 
chair,  the  hard  white  radiance  beating  on  her  from  a 
cluster  of  electric  bulbs  close  against  the  ceiling  as  if 
they  had  been  shot  up  there  by  an  explosion.  It  was 
half-past  six,  but  she  did  not  feel  at  all  hungry.  She 
felt — with  a  smothered  exclamation  she  jumped  up,  ran 
to  the  telephone  and  ordered  her  dinner. 

At  eight  o'clock  Mayer's  voice  on  the  phone  brought 
back  a  slight,  faint  echo  of  the  thrill.  What  he  said 


Chrystie  Sees  the  Dawn 


was  matter-of-fact  and  colorless — he  had  warned  her  that 
it  would  be — just  if  she  was  comfortable  and  everything 
was  all  right.  She  tried  to  answer  it  with  debonair 
brevity;  show  the  right  spirit,  bold  and  undismayed,  of 
the  dauntless  woman  to  the  companion  of  her  daring. 

Then  came  the  slow  undrawing  of  the  night,  the  noises 
of  the  house  dying  down,  car  bells  and  auto  horns  less 
frequent  in  the  streets  below.  The  bedroom  was  at  the 
back  of  the  building,  with  windows  that  looked  across 
a  paved  court  to  the  rear  walls  of  houses.  There  were 
lights  in  many  of  them,  glimpses  of  bright  interiors, 
people  chatting  in  friendly  groups.  The  sight  brought 
a  stabbing  memory  of  the  drawing-room  at  home,  and 
in  the  dark  she  undressed  and  slipped  into  bed. 

But  sleep  would  not  come — her  mind  would  not  obey 
her;  slipped  and  slid  away  from  her  direction  like  an 
animal  racing  for  its  goal.  At  home  at  this  hour  the 
door  between  her  room  and  Lorry's  would  be  open  and 
they  would  be  calling  back  and  forth  to  one  another 
as  they  made  ready  for  bed.  They  had  done  that  as 
far  back  as  she  could  remember,  back  to  the  time  when 
there  had  been  a  nurse  in  her  room  and  Lorry  had  worn 
her  hair  in  braids.  She  lay  still,  almost  breathless,  her 
eyes  fixed  on  the  yellow  oblong  of  the  transom,  recalling 
Lorry  in  those  days,  in  stiff  white  skirts  and  a  wide  silk 
sash,  very  grave,  a  little  woman  even  then.  She  groaned 
and  turned  over  in  the  bed,  digging  her  head  into  the 
pillow  and  closing  her  eyes. 

After  an  hour  or  two  she  rose  and  put  on  her  wrapper 
and  slippers.  The  turmoil  within  her  was  so  intense  that 
she  could  not  keep  still,  and  prowled,  a  tall,  swathed 
form,  from  one  room  to  the  other.  It  seemed  then  that 
there  never  had  been  a  thrill — nothing  but  this  repulsion, 
this  repudiation,  nothing  but  a  desire  to  be  back  where 

273 


Treasure  and  Trouble  Therewith 

she  belonged.  She  fought  it,  less  for  love  of  Mayer  than 
for  shame  at  her  own  backsliding.  She  saw  herself  a 
coward,  lacking  the  courage  to  take  her  life  boldly,  re- 
nouncing the  man  who  had  her  promise.  That  held  her 
closer  to  her  resolve  than  any  other  consideration ;  her 
troth  was  plighted.  Could  she  now — the  wedding  ring 
almost  on  her  finger — turn  and  run  crying  for  home  like 
a  child  frightened  of  the  dark? 

But  she  didn't  want  to,  she  didn't  want  to !  She 
seemed  to  see  Mayer  with  a  new  clearness ;  glimpsed,  to 
her  own  dread,  his  compelling  power.  He  was  her  mas- 
ter, someone  she  feared,  someone  who  could  make  her 
at  one  moment  feel  proud  and  glad,  and  at  another  small 
and  trivial  and  apologetic.  A  majestic  figure,  a  woman 
built  on  the  grand  plan,  poor  Chrystie  paced  through 
the  silent  rooms,  weeping  like  a  lost  baby. 

When  the  dawn  began  to  grow  pale  she  went  to  the 
bedroom  window  and  pulled  up  the  blinds.  Like  a  place 
of  dreams  the  city  slowly  grew  into  solidity  through  the 
spectral  light.  It  was  as  gray  as  her  mood,  all  color 
subdued,  walls  and  roofs  and  chimneys  an  even  mono- 
chrome, above  them  in  the  sky  an  increasing,  thin,  white 
luster.  The  air  stole  in  chill  as  the  prospect  and  from 
the  street  beyond  rose  the  sound  of  a  footfall,  enormously 
distinct,  echoing  prodigiously,  as  if  it  was  the  only  foot- 
fall left  in  the  world  and  the  sound  of  the  others — 
refused  individual  existence — had  concentrated  in  that 
one  to  give  it  volume. 

Chrystie  drew  up  a  chair  and  sat  down.  There  with 
swollen  eyes  and  leaden  heart  she  waited  for  the  day. 


CHAPTER     XXIX 

LORRY  SEES  THE  DAWN 

/^IHRYSTIE'S  manner  on  her  departure  had  dis- 
tiirbed  Lorry.  As  she  dressed  for  the  opera  that 
night  she  pondered  on  it,  and  back  from  it  to  the 
hange  she  had  noticed  in  the  girl  of  late.  She  hadn't 
»een  like  the  old,  easy-going  Chrystie ;  her  indolent  even- 
:ess  of  mood  had  given  place  to  a  mercurial  flightiness, 
.er  gay  good-humor  been  broken  by  flashes  of  temper 
nd  morose  silences. 

Rustling  into  her  new  white  dress  Lorry  reproached 
erself.  She  should  have  paid  more  attention  to  it.  If 
'hrystie  wasn't  well  or  something  was  troubling  her  she 
hould  have  found  out  what  it  was.  She  had  been  negli- 
•ent,  engrossed  in  her  own  affairs — thinking  of  a  man, 
reaming  like  a  lovesick  girl.  That  admission  made  her 
lush,  and  seeing  her  face  in  the  mirror,  the  cheeks  pink- 
inted,  the  eyes  darkly  glowing,  she  could  not  refrain 
rom  looking  at  it.  She  was  not  so  bad,  dressed  up  that 
'ay  with  a  diamond  spray  in  her  hair,  and  her  shoulders 
hite  above  the  crystal  trimming  of  her  bodice.  And  so 
—just  for  a  moment — she  again  forgot  Chrystie,  won- 
ering,  as  she  eyed  the  comely  reflection,  if  Mark  would 
e  at  the  opera. 

But  when  she  was  finished  and  had  called  in  Aunt 
Ulen  to  look  her  over,  the  discomforting  sense  of  duties 
iiirked  came  back.  As  she  slowly  turned  under  Aunt 
Ulen's  inspecting  gaze  and  drooped  her  shoulders  for 
Ke  blue  velvet  cloak  that  the  old  lady  held  out,  her 

275 


Treasure  and  TroiMe  Therewith 

thoughts  were  full  of  self-accusal.  On  the  stairway  they 
took  the  form  of  a  solemn  vow  to  pledge  herself  anew  to 
the  accustomed  watchful  care.  In  the  cab  they  crystal- 
lized into  a  definite  resolution:  as  soon  as  Chrystie  came 
back  from  the  Barlows'  she  would  have  an  old-time,  in- 
timate talk  with  her  and  find  out  if  anything  really  was 
the  matter  with  the  child. 

At  the  opera  it  was  so  exciting  and  so  wonderful  that 
everything  else  was  wiped  out  of  her  mind.  In  the  front 
of  the  box  she  sat — its  sole  ornament — against  a  back- 
ground of  Mrs.  Kirkham's  contemporaries,  withered  and 
sere  in  contrast  with  her  lily-pure  freshness.  In  the 
entr'actes  the  hostess  recalled  the  opera  house  in  its 
heyday  when  the  Bonanza  Kings  occupied  their  boxes 
with  the  Bonanza  Queens  beside  them,  when  everyone  was 
rich,  and  all  the  women  wore  diamonds.  The  old  ladies 
cackled  over  their  memories,  their  heads  together,  for- 
getful of  "Minnie's  girl,"  who  swept  the  house  with  he 
lorgnon  searching  for  a  familiar  face. 

Mrs.  Kirkham  was  going  to  make  a  night  of  it,  anc 
afterward  took  her  party  to  Zinkand's  for  supper.     Here 
too,  it  was  very  exciting,  too  much  claiming  one's  atten 
tion  for  private  worries  to  intrude.      The  opera  crowc 
came  thronging  in,  women  in  beautiful  clothes,  men  one' 
father  had  known,  youths  who  had  come  to  one's  house. 
Some  of  the  ladies  who  had  been  Minnie  Alston's  friends 
stopped  to  have  a  word  with  Lorry  and  then  swept  on 
making  murmurous  comment  to  their  escorts — the  Alston 
girls  were  coming  out  of  their  shells,  beginning  at  last 
to  take  their  places ;  it  was  a  pity  they  went  about  with 
fossils   of  the  Stone  Age  like  Mrs.   Kirkham,  but  they 
had  a  queer,  old-fashioned  streak  in  them — ah,  there's 
a  vacant  table! 

It   was   past   midnight   when  Mrs.   Kirkham   drop] 

276 


>ped 


Lorry  Sees  the  Dawn 


Lorry  at  her  door  and  rolled  off  with  the  rest  of  her 
cargo.  The  joy  of  the  evening  was  still  with  the  girl 
as  she  entered  the  hall.  She  stood  there  for  a  moment, 
pulling  off  her  gloves  and  looking  about  with  the  pru- 
dent eye  of  a  proprietor.  In  its  roving  her  glance  fell 
on  a  letter  in  the  card  tray.  It  was  addressed  to  her 
and  had  evidently  come  after  she  had  left.  Standing 
under  the  single  gas  jet  that  was  all  Feng's  thrifty  spirit 
would  permit,  she  opened  it. 

Anonymous  and  written  in  an  unknown  hand  it  struck 
upon  her  receptive  mood  with  a  staggering  shock. 

It  came,  a  bolt  from  the  blue,  but  a  bolt  that  fell 
precise  on  a  spot  ready  to  accept  it.  It  was  like  a  sign 
following  her  troubled  premonitions,  an  answer  to  her 
anxious  queries.  If  its  author  had  known  just  how  Miss 
Alston's  thoughts  had  been  engaged,  she  could  not  have 
aimed  her  missile  better  or  timed  it  more  accurately. 

During  the  first  moment  she  saw  nothing  but  the  cen- 
tral fact — the  concealed  love  affair  of  which  the  writer 
thought  she  was  cognizant.  Her  mind  accepted  that 
instantaneously,  corroborating  memories  coming  quick  to 
her  call.  They  flashed  across  her  mental  vision,  vivid 
and  detached  like  slides  in  a  magic  lantern — glimpses  of 
Chrystie  in  her  unfamiliar  brooding  and  her  flushed  ela- 
tion, and  the  walks,  the  long  walks,  from  which  she  re- 
turned withdrawn  and  curiously  silent — the  silence  of 
enraptured  retrospect. 

Then  quick,  leaping  upon  her,  came  the  recollection 
of  Chrystie's  departure  that  afternoon — the  clinging  em- 
brace, the  rush  down  the  steps,  the  absence  of  her  face 
at  the  carriage  window.  Lorry  gave  a  moan  and  her 
hands  rose,  clutched  against  her  heart.  It  was  proof 
of  how  her  lonely  life  had  molded  her  that  in  this  mo- 
ment of  piercing  alarm,  she  thought  of  no  help,  of  no 

277 


Treasure  and  Trouble  Therewith 

outside  assistance  to  which  she  could  appeal.  She  hac 
always  been  the  leader,  acted  on  her  own  initiative,  anc 
the  will  to  do  so  now  held  her  taut,  sending  her  mine 
forces  out,  clutching  and  groping  for  her  course.  11 
came  in  a  low-breathed  whisper  of,  "The  Barlows,"  anc 
she  ran  to  the  telephone,  an  old-fashioned  wall  instru- 
ment behind  the  stairs.  As  she  flew  toward  it  another 
magic  lantern  picture  flashed  into  being — Chrystie  bor- 
ing down  into  her  trunk  and  the  pile  of  money  on  the 
bureau.  That  forced  a  sound  out  of  her — a  sharp, 
groaned  note — as  if  expelled  from  her  body  by  the  im- 
pact of  a  blow. 

She  tried  to  give  the  Barlows'  number  clearly  and 
quietly  and  found  her  voice  broken  by  gasping  breaths. 
There  was  a  period  of  agonized  waiting,  then  a  drowsy 
"central"  saying  she  couldn't  raise  the  number,  and 
Lorry  trying  to  be  calm,  trying  to  be  reasonable — it 
must  be  raised,  it  was  important,  they  were  asleep  that 
was  all.  Ring — ring — ring  till  someone  answers. 

It  seemed  hours  before  Roy  Barlow's  voice,  sleepy 
and  cross,  came  growling  along  the  wire: 

"What  the  devil's  the  matter?      Who  is  it?" 

Then  her  answer  and  her  question:  Was  Chrystie 
there? 

That  smoothed  out  the  crossness  and  woke  him  up. 
He  became  suddenly  alert: 

"Chrystie?       Here— with   us?" 

"Yes — staying  over  till  Friday.  Went  down  this 
afternoon." 

"No.  She's  not  here.  What  makes  you  think  she 
is?" 

She  did  not  know  what  to  say;  the  instinct  to  pro- 
tect, her  sister  was  part  of  her  being,  strong  in  a  moral 
menace  as  a  physical.  She  fumbled  out  an  explanation 

278 


Lorry  Sees  the  Dawn 


— she'd  been  out  of  town  and  in  her  absence  Chrystie 
had  gone  to  the  country  without  leaving  word  where. 
Et  was  all  right  of  course,  she  was  a  fool  to  bother  about 
it,  but  she  couldn't  rest  till  she  knew  where  the  girl  had 
srone.  It  was  probably  either  to  the  Spencers  or  the 
Joneses ;  they'd  been  teasing  her  to  visit  them  all  winter. 
Roy,  now  wide-awake,  showed  a  tendency  to  ask  ques- 
tions, but  she  cut  him  off,  swamped  his  curiosity  in  apol- 
ogies and  good-bys  and  hung  up  the  receiver. 

She  was  almost  certain  now,  and  again  she  stood  press- 
ing down  her  terrors,  urging  her  faculties  to  intelligent 
action.  She  did  not  let  them  slip  from  her  guidance; 
held  them  close  as  dogs  to  the  trail.  A  moment  of 
rigid  immobility  and  she  had  whirled  back  to  the  tele- 
phone and  called  up  a  near-by  livery  stable.  This  an- 
swered promptly  and  she  ordered  a  cab  sent  round  at 
once. 

While  she  waited  she  tried  to  keep  steady  and  think 
clearly.  Prominent  in  her  mind  was  the  necessity  not 
to  move  rashly,  not  to  do  anything  that  would  react 
on  Chrystie.  There  might  yet  be  a  mistake — a  blessed, 
unforseen  mistake.  She  clung  to  the  idea  as  those  about 
a  deathbed  cling  to  the  hope  that  a  miracle  may  super- 
vene and  save  their  loved  one.  There  was  a  possibility 
that  Chrystie  had  gone  on  some  mysterious  adventure 
of  her  own,  was  playing  a  trick,  was  doing  anything 
but  eloping  with  a  man  that  no  one  had  ever  thought 
she  cared  for.  The  only  way  to  find  out  whether  Mayer 
had  any  part  in  her  disappearance  was  to  go  directly 
to  him. 

She  sat  stiffly  in  the  cab  holding  her  hands  tight- 
clenched  to  control  their  trembling.  Her  whole  being 
seemed  to  tremble  like  a  substance  strained  to  the  point 
of  a  perpetual  vibration.  She  was  not  conscious  of  it; 

279 


Treasure  and  Trouble  Therewith 

was  only  conscious  of  her  will  stretching  out  like  a 
tangible  thing,  grasping  at  a  fleeing  Chrystie  and  drag- 
ging her  back.  And  under  that  lay  a  substratum  of 
anguish — that  it  was  her  fault,  her  fault.  The  wheels 
repeated  the  words  in  their  rhythmic  rotation;  the 
horse's  hoofs  hammered  them  out  on  the  pavement. 

The  night  clerk  at  the  Argonaut  Hotel,  drowsing 
behind  his  desk,  sat  up  with  a  start  when  he  saw  her. 
Ladies  in  such  gala  array  were  rare  at  The  Argonaut 
at  any  hour,  much  more  so  at  long  past  midnight.  That 
this  one  was  agitated  even  the  sleepy  clerk  could  see. 
Her  face  was  nearly  as  white  as  the  dress  showing  be- 
tween the  loosened  fronts  of  her  cloak.  The  voice  in 
which  she  asked  if  Mr.  Mayer  was  there  was  a  husky 
undertone.  The  clerk,  scrambling  to  his  feet,  said  yes, 
as  far  as  he  knew  Mr.  Mayer  was  in  his  room.  He  had 
come  in  about  ten  and  hadn't  gone  out  since. 

A  change  took  place  in  her  expression;  the  strained 
look  relaxed  and  the  white  neck,  showing  between  the 
cloak  edges,  lifted  with  a  caught  breath. 

"Where  is  he?"  she  said,  and  before  the  man  could 
answer  had  turned  and  swept  toward  the  stairs. 

"Second  floor — two  doors  from  the  stairs  on  your 
right — No.  8,"  he  called,  and  watched  her  as  she 
ran,  her  skirts  lifted,  the  rich  cloak  drooping  about 
her  form  as  it  slanted  forward  in  the  rush  of  her 
ascent. 

Mayer  was  still  up  and  sitting  at  his  desk.  Every- 
thing was  progressing  satisfactorily.  An  excellent  din- 
ner had  exerted  its  comforting  influence  and  the  tele- 
phone message  to  Chrystie  had  shown  her  to  be  reas- 
suringly uncomplaining  and  tranquil.  Elated  by  a  heady 
sense  of  approaching  success  he  had  packed  his  trun 
in  the  bedroom  and  then  come  back  to  the  parlor  an 

280 


•y 

: 


Lorry  Sees  the  Dawn 


added  up  his  resources  and  coming  expenses.  He  had 
calculated  what  these  would  be  with  businesslike  thorough- 
ness, his  mind,  under  the  process  of  addition  and  sub- 
traction, cogitating  on  a  distribution  of  funds  that 
would  at  once  husband  them  and  yield  him  the  means 
of  impressing  his  bride.  Through  the  word  "jewelry" 
he  had  drawn  his  pen,  substituting  "candy  and  flowers," 
and  was  leaning  back  in  gratified  contemplation  when  a 
knock  fell  on  the  door.  He  rose  to  his  feet,  frightened, 
for  the  first  moment  inclined  to  make  no  answer.  Then 
knowing  that  the  light  through  the  transom  would  be- 
tray his  presence,  he  called,  "Come  in." 

Lorry  Alston,  in  evening  dress,  pale-faced  and  alone, 
entered. 

His  surprise  and  alarm  were  overwhelming.  With 
the  pen  still  in  his  hand  he  stood  speechless,  staring 
at  her,  and  had  she  faced  him  then  and  there  with  her 
knowledge  of  the  facts,  admission  might  have  dropped, 
in  scared  amaze,  from  his  lips. 

But  the  sight  of  him,  peacefully  employed  in  his  own 
apartment,  when  she  had  .suspected  him  of  being  some- 
where else,  nefariously  engaged  in  running  away  with  her 
sister,  had  so  relieved  her,  that,  in  that  first  moment  of 
encounter,  she  was  silent.  Bewilderment,  verging  toward 
apology,  kept  her  on  the  threshold.      Then  the  memory 
of  the  letter  sent  her  over  it,  brought  back  the  realiza- 
tion that  even  if  he  was  here  by  himself  he  must  know 
something  of  Chrystie's  whereabouts. 
Closing  the  door  behind  her  she  said: 
"Mr.  Mayer,  I'm  looking  for  my  sister." 
If  that  told  him  that  she  did  not  know  where  Chrys- 
tie  was,  it   also   told  that   she   connected  him  with   the 
girl's   absence.       He  controlled  his   alarm  and  drew  his 
shaken  faculties  into  order. 


Treasure  and  Trouble  Therewith 


"Looking  for  your  sister!"  he  repeated.  "Looking 
for  her  here?" 

"Yes."  She  advanced  a  step,  her  eyes  sternly  fixed 
on  him.  He  did  not  like  the  look,  there  was  question 
and  accusation  in  it,  but  he  was  able  to  inject  a  digni- 
fied surprise  into  his  answer. 

"I  don't  understand  you,  Miss  Alston.  Why  should 
you  come  to  'me  at  this  hour  to  find  your  sister?" 

He  did  it  well,  wounded  pride,  hostility  under  unjust 
suspicion,  strong  in  his  voice. 

"Chrystie's  gone,"  she  answered.  "She  told  me  she 
was  going  to  friends,  and  I  find  she  isn't  there.  She 
deceived  me  and  I  had  reason — I  heard  something  to- 
night that  made  me  think "  She  stopped.  It  was 

horrible  to  state  to  this  man,  now  frankly  abhorred, 
what  she  suspected.  There  was  a  slight  pause  while  he 
waited  with  an  air  of  cold  forbearance. 

"Well,"  he  said  at  length,  "would  it  be  too  much 
trouble  to  tell  me  what  you  think?" 

She  had  to  say  it: 

"That  she  had  gone  to  you." 

"To  me?"     He  was  incredulous,  astounded. 

"Yes.      Had  run  away  with  you." 

"What  reason  had  you  for  thinking  such  a  thing?" 

She  made  a  step  forward,  ignoring  the  question. 

"She  isn't  here — I  can  see  that — but  where  is 
she?" 

"How  should  I  know?" 

"Because  you  must  know  something  about  her,  be- 
cause you  do  know.  Chrystie  of  herself  wouldn't  tell 
me  lies;  someone's  made  her  do  it,  you've  made  her  do 
it." 

"Really,  Miss  Alston " 

But  she  wouldn't  give  him  time  to  finish. 

282 


Lorry  Sees  the  Dawn 


"Mr.  Mayer,  you've  got  to  tell  me  where  she  is.  I 
won't  leave  here  till  you  do." 

He  had  always  felt  and  disliked  a  quality  of  cool 
reasonableness  in  this  girl.  Now  he  saw  a  fighting  cour- 
age, a  thing  he  had  never  guessed  under  that  gentle 
exterior,  and  he  liked  it  even  less.  Had  he  followed  his 
inclination  he  would  have  treated  her  with  the  rough 
brutality  he  had  awarded  Pancha,  but  he  had  to  keep 
his  balance  and  discover  how  much  she  knew. 

"Miss  Alston,  we're  at  cross-purposes.  We'd  come 
to  a  better  understanding  if  I  knew  what  you're  talking 
about.  You  spoke  of  finding  out  something  tonight. 
If  you'll  tell  me  what  it  is  I'll  be  able  to  answer  you 
more  intelligently." 

She  thrust  her  hand  into  her  belt,  drew  out  a  folded 
paper  and  handed  it  to  him. 

"That.  I  found  it  when  I  came  back  from  the 
opera." 

He  recognized  the  writing  at  once,  and  before  he  was 
halfway  through  his  rage  against  Pancha  was  boiling. 
When  he  had  finished  he  could  not  trust  his  voice,  and 
staring  at  the  paper,  he  heard  her  say: 

"I've  known  for  some  time  Chrystie  was  troubled  and 
not  herself,  and  this  afternoon  when  I  saw  her  go  I 
knew  something  was  wrong.  She  looked  ill;  she  could 
hardly  speak  to  me.  And  then  that  came,  and  I  tele- 
phoned to  the  Barlows' — the  place  she  was  going.  She 
wasn't  there,  they'd  never  asked  her,  never  expected  her. 
She's  gone  somewhere — disappeared."  She  raised  her 
voice,  hard,  threatening,  her  face  angrily  accusing, 
"Where  is  she,  Mr.  Mayer?  Where  is  she?" 

He  knew  it  all  now,  and  his  knowledge  made  him 
master. 

"Miss  Alston,  I'm  very  sorry  about  this " 

283 


Treasure  and  Trouble  Therewith 

"Oh,  don't  talk  that  way!"  she  cried,  pointing  at  the 
letter.  "What  does  that  mean?" 

"I  think  I  can  explain.  You've  given  yourself  a  lot 
of  unnecessary  trouble  and  taken  this  thing,"  he  scorn- 
fully dropped  the  letter  on  the  table,  "altogether  too 
seriously.  Sit  down  and  let  me  straighten  it  out." 

He  pointed  to  the  rocker,  but  she  did  not  move,  keep- 
ing her  eyes  with  their  fierce  steadiness  on  his  face. 

"How  could  I  take  it  too  seriously?"  she  said. 

"Why" — he  smiled  in  good-natured  derision — "what 
is  it?  An  anonymous  letter,  evidently  by  the  wording 
and  the  writing  the  work  of  an  uneducated  person.  It's 
perfectly  true  that  I've  seen  your  sister  several  times 
on  the  streets,  and  once  I  did  happen  upon  her  when 
she  was  taking  a  walk  in  the  plaza  by  the  Greek  Church. 
But  there's  nothing  unusual  about  that — I've  met  and 
talked  with  many  other  ladies  in  the  same  way.  The 
writer  of  that  rubbish  evidently  saw  us  in  the  plaza  and 
decided — to  use  his  own  language — that  he'd  have  some 
fun  with  us,  or  rather  with  me.  The  whole  thing — the 
expression,  the  tone — indicates  a  vulgar,  malicious  mind. 
Don't  give  it  another  thought,  it's  unworthy  of  your 
consideration." 

He  saw  he  had  made  an  impression.  Her  eyes  left 
him  and  she  stood  gazing  fixedly  into  space,  evidently 
pondering  his  explanation.  In  a  pleasantly  persuasive 
tone  he  added: 

"You  know  that  I've  not  been  a  constant  visitor  at 
your  house.  You've  seen  my  attitude  to  your  sister." 

She  made  no  reply  to  that,  muttering  low  as  if  to 
herself  : 

"Why  should  anyone  write  such  a  letter  without  a 
reason  ?" 

"Ah,  my  dear  lady,  why  are  there  mischief  makers 

284 


Lorry  Sees  the  Dawn 


in  the  world?  I'm  awfully  sorry;  I  feel  responsible,  for 
the  person  who'd  do  such  a  thing  is  more  likely  to  be 
known  by  me  than  by  you.  It's  probably  some  servant 
I've  forgotten  to  tip  or  by  accident  given  a  plugged 
quarter." 

There  was  a  pause,  then  she  turned  to  him  and  said: 

"But  where's  Chrystie?" 

He  came  closer,   comforting,  very  friendly: 

"Since  you  ask  me  I'd  set  this  down  as  a  prank. 
She's  full  of  high  spirits — only  a  child  yet.  She's  gone 
somewhere,  to  some  friend's  house,  is  playing  a  joke  on 
you.  Isn't  that  possible?" 

"Yes,  possible."  She  had  already  found  this  straw 
herself,  but  grasped  it  anew,  pushed  forward  by  him. 

He  went  on,  his  words  sounding  the  note  of  mascu- 
line reason  and  reassurance. 

"You'll  probably  hear  from  her  tomorrow,  and  you'll 
laugh  together  over  your  fears  of  tonight.  But  if  you 
take  my  advice,  don't  say  anything  outside,  don't  tell 
anyone.  You're  liable  to  set  the  gossips  talking,  and 
you  never  know  when  they'll  stop.  They  might  make 
it  very  unpleasant  for  you  both.  Miss  Chrystie  doesn't 
want  her  schoolgirl  tricks  magnified  into  scandals." 

She  nodded,  brows  drawn  low,  her  teeth  set  on  her 
underlip.  If  he  had  convinced  her  of  his  innocence  he 
saw  he  had  not  killed  her  anxieties. 

"Is  there  any  way  I  can  help  you?"  he  hazarded. 

She  shook  her  head.  She  had  the  appearance  of  having 
suddenly  become  oblivious  to  him — not  finding  him  a 
culprit,  she  had  brushed  him  aside  as  negligible. 

"Then  you'll  go  home  and  give  up  troubling  about 
it?" 

"I'll  go  home,"  she  said,  and  with  a  deep  sigh  seemed 
to  come  back  to  the  moment  and  his  presence.  Moving 

285 


Treasure  and  Trouble  Therewith 

to  the  table  she  picked  up  the  letter.  Now  that  he  was 
at  ease,  her  face  in  its  harassed  care  touched  a  vulner- 
able spot.  He  was  sorry  for  her. 

"Don't  take  it  so  to  heart,  Miss  Alston.  I'm  con- 
vinced it's  going  to  turn  out  all  right." 

She  gave  him  a  sharp,  startled  look. 

"Of  course  it  is.  If  I  thought  it  wasn't  would  I  be 
standing  here  doing  nothing?" 

She  walked  to  the  door,  the  small  punctilio  of  good-bys 
ignored  as  she  had  ignored  all  thought  of  strangeness 
in  being  in  that  place  at  that  hour. 

"I  wish  I  could  do  something  to  ease  your  mind,"  he 
said,  watching  her  receding  back. 

"You  can't,"  she  answered  and  opened  the  door. 

"Have  you  a  trap — something  to  take  you  home?" 

She  passed  through  the  doorway,  throwing  over  her 
shoulder : 

"Yes,  I've  a  cab — it's  been  waiting." 

In  spite  of  his  success  he  had,  for  a  moment,  a  crest- 
fallen sense  of  feeling  small  and  contemptible.  He 
watched  her  walk  down  the  hall  and  then  went  to  the 
window  and  saw  her  emerge  from  the  street  door,  and 
enter  the  cab  waiting  at  the  curb. 

Alone,  faced  by  this  new  complication,  the  sting  of 
her  disparaging  indifference  was  forgotten.  There  was 
no  sleep  for  him  that  night,  and  lighting  a  cigarette  he 
paced  the  room.  He  would  have  to  let  the  gambling 
debt  go;  there  could  be  no  delay  now.  By  the  after- 
noon of  the  next  day  Lorry  would  be  in  a  state  where 
one  could  not  tell  what  she  might  do.  He  would  have  to 
leave  on  the  morning  train,  call  up  Chrystie  at  seven,  go 
out  and  change  the  tickets,  and  meet  her  at  Oakland. 
In  the  sudden  concentrating  of  perils,  the  elopement  was 
gradually  losing  its  surreptitious  character  and  becom- 

286 


Lorry  Sees  the  Dawn 


ing  an  affair  openly  conducted  under  the  public  eye. 
But  there  was  no  other  course.  Even  if  they  were  seen 
on  the  train  they  would  reach  Reno  without  interference, 
and  once  there  he  would  find  a  clergyman  and  have  the 
marriage  ceremony  performed  at  once.  After  that  it 
didn't  matter — he  trusted  in  his  power  over  Chrystie. 
In  the  back  of  his  mind  rose  a  discomforting  thought  of 
an  eventual  "squaring  things"  with  Lorry,  but  he  pushed 
it  aside.  Future  difficulties  had  no  place  in  the  present 
and  its  desperate  urgencies.  The  thought  of  Pancha  also 
intruded,  and  on  that  he  hung,  for  a  moment,  his  face 
evil  with  a  thwarted  rage,  his  hands  instinctively  bent 
into  talons.  Had  he  dared  he  would  like  to  have  gone 
to  her  and — but  he  pushed  that  aside  too  and  went  back 
to  his  plans  and  his  pacings. 

Lorry  went  home  convinced  of  Mayer's  ignorance. 
Finding  him  at  the  hotel  had  done  half,  his  arguments 
and  manner  the  rest.  And  during  the  drive  back  his 
explanation  of  Chrystie's  disappearance  had  retained  a 
consoling  plausibility.  She  held  to  it  fiercely,  conned 
it  over,  tried  to  force  herself  to  see  the  girl  impishly 
bent  on  a  foolish  practical  joke. 

But  when  she  was  in  her  own  room,  the  blank  silence 
of  the  house  about  her,  it  fell  from  her  and  left  her 
defenseless  against  growing  fears.  It  was  impossible  to 
believe  it — utterly  foreign  to  Chrystie's  temperament. 
She  racked  her  memory  for  occasions  in  the  past  when 
her  sister  had  indulged  in  such  cruel  teasing  and  not 
one  came  to  her  mind.  No — she  wouldn't  have  done  it, 
she  couldn't — something  more  than  a  joke  had  made 
Chrystie  lie  to  her.  A  sumptuous  figure  in  her  glisten- 
ing dress,  she  moved  about,  rose  and  sat,  jerked  back  the 
curtains,  picked  up  and  dropped  the  silver  ornaments 
on  the  bureau.  Her  lips  were  dry,  her  heart  contracted 

287 


Treasure  and  Trouble  Therewith 

with  a  sickening  dread;  never  in  all  the  calls  made  upon 
her  had  there  been  anything  like  this;  finding  her  with 
out  resources,  reducing  her  to  an  anguished  helplessness 

If  in  the  morning  there  was  no  word  from  Chrystie  sh 
would  have  to  do  something  and  she  could  not  think  wha 
this  should  be.  Mayer  had  not  needed  to  warn  he 
against  giving  her  sister  up  to  the  tongue  of  gossip.  Th 
most  guileless  of  girls  living  in  San  Francisco  would  lean 
that  lesson  early.  But  what  could  she  do?  To  whoir 
could  she  go  for  help  and  advice?  She  thought  of  he 
mother's  friends,  the  guardians  of  the  estate,  and  re 
pudiated  them  with  a  smothered  sound  of  scorn.  The;; 
wouldn't  care ;  would  let  it  get  into  the  papers ;  woul< 
probably  suggest  the  police.  And  would  she  not  herself — 
if  Chrystie  did  not  come  back  or  write — have  to  go  to  th 
police  ? 

That  brought  her  to  a  standstill,  and  with  both  hand 
she  pressed  on  her  forehead  pushing  back  her  hair,  send 
ing  tormented  looks  about  her.  If  there  was  only  some 
one  who  would  understand,  someone  she  could  trust 
someone — she  dropped  her  hands,  her  eyes  widening,  fixec 
and  startled,  as  a  name  rose  to  her  lips  and  fell  whisperec 
on  the  stillness.  It  came  without  search  or  expectation 
seemed  impelled  from  her  by  her  inward  stress,  foum 
utterance  before  she  knew  she  had  thought  of  him.  A 
deep  breath  heaved  her  chest,  her  head  drooped  backward 
her  eyelids  closing  in  a  relief  as  intense,  as  ineffably  com 
forting,  as  the  cessation  of  an  unbearable  pain. 

She  stood  rigid,  the  light  falling  bright  on  her  upturnec 
face,  still  as  a  marble  mask.  For  a  moment  she  felt  bodi 
less,  her  containing  shell  dissolved,  nothing  left  of  her  bu 
her  longing  for  him.  Like  an  audible  cry  or  the  gras 
of  her  hand  drawing  him  to  her,  it  went  out  from  her 
imperious,  an  appeal  and  a  summons.  Again  she  whis 

288 


Lorry  Sees  the  Dawn 


pered  his  name ;  but  she  heard  it  only  as  the  repetition  of 
a  solace  and  a  solution,  was  not  aware  of  forces  tapped 
in  lower  wells  of  being. 

After  that  she  felt  curiously  calmed,  her  wild  restless- 
ness gone,  her  nightmare  terrors  assuaged.  If  she  did  not 
hear  from  Chrystie  by  midday  she  would  call  him  up  at 
his  office  and  ask  him  to  come  to  her.  She  seemed  to  have 
found  in  the  thought  of  him,  not  only  a  staff  to  uphold, 
but  wisdom  to  guide. 

She  drew  the  curtains  and  saw  the  first  thin  glimmer- 
ing of  dawn,  pearl-faint  in  the  sky,  pearl-pale  on  the 
garden.  The  crystal  trimmings  of  her  bodice  gave  a  re- 
sponsive gleam,  and  looking  down  she  was  aware  of  her 
gala  array.  She  slipped  out  of  it,  put  on  a  morning 
dress,  and  denuded  her  hair  of  its  shining  ornament.  It 
seemed  long  ago,  in  another  life,  that  she  had  sat  in  Mrs. 
Kirkham's  box,  rejoicing  in  her  costly  trappings,  glad 
to  be  admired. 

Then  she  pulled  a  chair  to  the  window  and  sat  there 
waiting  for  the  light  to  come.  It  crept  ghostly  over  the 
garden,  trees  and  plants  taking  form,  the  walks  and 
lawns,  a  vagueness  of  dark  patches  and  lighter  windings, 
emerging  in  gradual  definiteness.  The  sky  above  the  next 
house  grew  a  lucid  gray,  then  a  luminous  mother-of-pearl. 
She  could  see  the  glistening  of  dew,  its  beaded  hoar  upon 
cobwebs  and  grassy  borders.  There  was  no  footstep  here 
to  disturb  the  silence ;  the  dawn  stole  into  being  in  a  deep 
and  breathless  quietude. 


CHAPTER  XXX 

MARK  SEES  THE  DAWN 

THAT   same   Tuesday   afternoon  Mark   sat  in   the 
doorway  of  the  cowshed  looking  at  the  road. 

It  was  the  first  period  of  rest  and  ease  he  had 
had  since  his  arrival.  He  had  found  the  household  dis- 
organized, his  father  hovering,  frantic,  round  the  sick  bed, 
and  Sadie  distractedly  distributing  her  energies  between 
her  mother's  room  and  the  kitchen.  It  was  he  who  had 
driven  over  to  Stockton  and  brought  back  a  nurse,  in- 
sisted on  the  doctor  staying  in  the  house  and  made  him  a 
shakedown  in  the  parlor.  When  things  began  to  look 
better  he  had  turned  his  hand  to  the  farm  work  and 
labored  through  the  week's  accumulation,  while  the  old 
man  sat  beside  his  wife's  pillow,  his  chin  sunk  on  his 
breast. 

Today  the  tension  had  relaxed,  for  the  doctor  said 
Mother  was  going  to  pull  through.  An  hour  ago  he  had 
packed  his  kit  and  driven  off  to  his  own  house  up  the 
valley,  not  to  be  back  till  tomorrow.  It  was  very  peace- 
ful in  the  yard,  the  warm,  sleepy  air  full  of  the  droning 
of  insect  life  which  ran  like  a  thin  accompaniment  under 
a  low  crooning  of  song  from  the  kitchen  where  Sadie  was 
straightening  up.  On  the  front  porch,  the  farmer,  his 
feet  on  the  railing,  his  hat  on  his  nose,  was  sunk  in  the 
depths  of  a  recuperating  sleep. 

Astride  the  milking  stool  Mark  looked  dreamily  at  the 
familiar  prospect,  the  black  carpet  of  shade  under  the 
live  oak,  the  bright  bits  of  sky  between  its  boughs,  beyond 

290 


Mark  Sees  the  Dawn 


the  brilliant  vividness  of  the  landscape.  This  was  crossed 
by  the  tall  trunks  of  the  eucalyptus  trees,  all  ragged  bark 
and  pendulous  foliage,  the  road  striped  with  their  shadows. 
He  looked  down  its  length,  then  back  along  the  line  of 
the  picket  fence,  his  glance  slowly  traveling  and  finally 
halting  at  a  place  just  opposite. 

Here  his  imagination  suddenly  restored  a  picture  from 
the  past — the  tramp  asking  for  water.  His  senses,  dor- 
mant and  unobserving,  permitted  the  memory  to  attain  a 
lifelike  accuracy  and  the  figure  was  presented  to  his  in- 
ward eye  with  photographic  clearness.  Very  still  in  the 
interest  of  this  unprovoked  recollection,  he  saw  again  the 
haggard  face  with  its  lowering  expression,  and  remem- 
bered Chrystie's  question  about  recognizing  the  man. 

He  felt  now  that  he  could,  even  in  other  clothes  and  a 
different  setting.  The  eyes  were  unmistakable.  He  re- 
called them  distinctly — a  very  clear  gray  as  if  they  might 
have  had  a  thin  crystal  glaze  like  a  watch  face.  The  lids 
were  long  and  heavy,  the  look  sliding  out  from  under  them 
coldly  sullen. 

As  he  pictured  them — looking  surlily  into  his — a  con- 
viction rose  upon  him  that  he  had  seen  them  since  then, 
somewhere  recently.  They  were  not  as  morose  as  they 
had  been  that  first  time,  had  some  vague  association  with 
smiles  and  pleasantness.  He  was  puzzled,  for  he  could 
only  seem  to  get  them  without  surroundings,  without  even 
a  face,  detached  from  all  setting  like  a  cat's  eyes  gleaming 
from  the  dark.  Unable  to  link  them  to  anything  definite 
he  concluded  he  had  dreamed  of  them.  But  the  explana- 
tion was  not  entirely  satisfactory;  he  was  left  with  a 
tormenting  sense  of  their  importance,  that  they  were  con- 
nected with  something  that  he  ought  to  remember. 

He  shook  himself  and  rose  from  the  stool — no  good 
wasting  time  chasing  such  elusive  fancies.  The  tramp 


Treasure  and  Trouble  Therewith 

had  brought  to  his  mind  the  money  found  in  the  tules  and 
he  decided  to  walk  up  the  road  and  try  to  locate  the  spot 
described  to  him  that  morning  by  Sadie. 

On  the  hillock,  where  eight  months  earlier  Mayer  had 
sat  and  cursed  the  marshes,  he  came  to  a  stand,  his  glance 
ranging  over  the  long,  green  floor.  By  Sadie's  directions 
he  set  the  place  about  midway  between  where  he  stood  and 
the  white  square  of  the  Ariel  Club  house.  If  it  was  the 
tramp  he  had  gone  across  from  there,  which  would  argue 
a  knowledge  of  the  complicated  system  of  paths  and 
planks.  It  was  improbable — from  his  childhood  he  could 
remember  the  hoboes  footing  it  doggedly  round  the  head 
of  the  tules. 

His  thoughts  were  broken  into  by  a  voice  hailing  him, 
a  fresh,  reed-sweet  pipe. 

"Hello,  Mark — what  you  doin'  there  ?" 

It  was  Tito  Murano  returning  from  the  Swede  man's 
ranch  up  the  trail,  with  a  basket  of  eggs  for  his  mother. 
Tito  had  become  something  of  a  hero  in  the  neighbor- 
hood. In  the  preceding  autumn  he  had  developed  typhoid, 
nearly  died,  and  been  sent  to  a  relative  in  the  higher  land 
of  the  foothill  fruit  farms.  From  there  he  had  only  re- 
cently returned  with  the  reclame  of  one  who  has  adven- 
tured far  and  seen  strange  lands.  Barelegged,  his  few 
rags  flapping  round  his  thin  brown  body,  he  charged 
forward  at  a  run,  holding  the  egg  basket  out  at  arm's 
length.  His  face  was  wreathed  in  happy  smiles,  for  the 
encounter  filled  him  with  delight.  Mark  was  his  idol  and 
this  was  the  first  time  he  had  seen  him. 

They  sat  side  by  side  on  the  knoll  and  Tito  told  of  his 
wanderings.  At  times  he  spit  to  show  his  growth  in 
grace,  and  after  studying  the  long  sprawl  of  Mark's  legs 
disposed  his  own  in  as  close  an  imitation  as  their  length 
would  permit.  It  was  when  his  story  was  over  and  the 


Mark  Sees  the  Dawn 


conversation  showed  a  tendency  to  languish  that  Mark 
said: 

"I  was  just  looking  out  over  there  and  trying  to  locate 
the  place  where  the  bandits  had  their  cache." 

Tito  raised  a  grubby  hand  and  pointed. 

"Right  away  beyont  where  you  see  the  water  shinin'. 
It's  a  sort  of  island — I  was  out  there  after  I  come  back 
but  the  hole  was  all  washed  away  and  filled  up." 

"You  were  out  there?     Do  you  know  the  way?" 

Tito  spit  calmly,  almost  contemptuously. 

"Me?  I  bin  often — there  ain't  a  trail  I  don't  know. 
I  could  lead  you  straight  acrost.  I  took  a  tramp  wonct ; 
anyways  I  would  have  took  him  if  he'd  let  me." 

"A  tramp!"     Mark  straightened  up.     "When?" 

The  episode  of  the  tramp  had  almost  faded  from  Tito's 
mind.  What  still  lingered  was  not  the  memory  of  his 
fear  but  the  way  he  had  been  swindled.  Now  in  company 
with  one  who  always  understood  and  never  scolded,  he  was 
filled  with  a  desire  to  tell  it  and  gain  a  tardy  sympathy. 
He  screwed  up  his  eyes  in  an  effort  to  answer  accu- 
rately. 

"I  guess  it  was  last  fall.  Yes,  it  was,  just  before 
school  commenced.  I  wouldn't  'a  done  it — Pop'd  have 
licked  me  if  he'd  'a  known — but  he  promised  me  a 
quarter." 

"Who  promised  you  a  quarter?" 

"Him — the  tramp.  And  I  was  doin'  it,  but  he  got 
awful  mean,  swore  somethin'  fierce  and  said  I  didn't  know. 
And  how  was  he  to  tell  and  us  only  halfway  acrost  ?" 

"You  mean  you  only  took  him  halfway?" 

"It  was  all  he'd  let  me,"  said  Tito,  on  the  defensive. 
"I  tolt  him  it  was  all  right,  but  he  just  stood  up  there 
cursin'  me.  And  then  he  got  to  throwin'  things,  almost 
had  me  here" — he  put  his  hand  against  his  ear — "like  he 

293 


Treasure  and  Trouble  Therewith 

was  plumb  crazy.  But  I  guess  he  wasn't,  for  he  wouldn't 
give  me  the  quarter."  , 

"Did  you  leave  him  there?" 

"Sure  I  did.  I  run,  I  was  scairt.  Pop  and  Mom'd 
always  be  tellin'  me  to  have  nothin'  to  do  with  tramps. 
And  it  was  awful  lonesome  out  there  and  him  swearin'  and 
firm'  rocks." 

Tito  did  not  receive  that  immediate  consolation  he  had 
looked  for.  His  friend  was  silent;  a  side  glance  showed 
him  studying  the  tules  with  meditative  eyes.  For  a  mo- 
ment the  little  boy  had  a  dreary  feeling  that  his  confi- 
dence was  going  to  be  rewarded  by  a  reprimand,  then 
Mark  said: 

"Do  you  remember  what  the  man  looked  like?" 

"Awful  poor  with  long  whiskers  all  sort  'er  stragglin' 
round.  He'd  a  straw  hat  and  a  basket  and  eyes  on  him 
like  he  was  sleepy." 

Again  Mark  made  no  response,  and  Tito,  feeling  that 
he  had  not  grasped  the  full  depths  of  the  tragedy,  piped 
up  plaintively: 

"I'd  'a  stood  the  swearin'  and  I  could  'a  dodged  the 
rocks  if  he'd  given  me  the  quarter.  But  I  couldn't  get  it 
off  him — not  even  a  dime." 

That  had  a  good  effect,  much  better  than  Tito's  high- 
est hopes  had  anticipated. 

"Well,  he  treated  you  mean,  old  man.  And,  take  it 
from  me — don't  you  go  showing  the  way  to  any  more 
tramps.  They're  the  kind  to  let  alone.  As  for  the 
quarter  I  guess  that's  due  with  interest.  Here  it  is." 
And  a  half  dollar  was  laid  on  Tito's  knee. 

At  the  first  glance  he  could  hardly  believe  it,  then  see- 
ing it  immovable,  a  gleaming  disk  of  promise,  his  face 
flushed  deep  in  the  uprush  of  his  joy.  He  took  it,  weighed 
it  on  his  palm,  wanted  to  study  it,  but  instead  slipped  it 

294 


Mark  Sees  the  Dawn 


mannishly  into  the  pocket  of  his  blouse.  His  education 
had  not  included  a  training  in  manners,  so  he  said  noth- 
ing, just  straightened  up  and  sent  a  slanting  look  into 
Mark's  face.  It  was  an  eloquent  look,  beaming,  jubilant, 
a  shining  thanks. 

They  walked  back  together,  or  rather  Mark  walked 
and  Tito  circled  round  him,  curvetting  in  bridling  ec- 
stasy. Mrs.  Murano's  temper  being  historic,  Mark  took 
the  egg  basket,  and  Tito,  all  fears  of  accident  removed, 
abandoned  himself  to  the  pure  joys  of  the  imagination. 
He  became  at  once  a  horse  and  his  rider,  pranced,  backed, 
took  mincing  sidesteps  and  long,  spirited  rushes;  at 
one  moment  was  all  steed,  mettlesome  and  wild;  at 
the  next  all  man,  calling,  gruff-voiced,  in  quelling 
authority. 

Mark,  the  eggs  safe,  was  thoughtful.  So  it  must  have 
been  the  tramp  as  he  had  suspected.  But  the  eyes — he 
could  not  shake  off  that  haunting  fancy  of  a  second  en- 
counter. All  the  way  home  his  mind  hovered  round  them, 
strained  for  a  clearer  vision,  seemed  at  moments  on  the 
edge  of  illumination,  then  lost  it  all. 

That  night  in  his  room  under  the  eaves  he  did  not  sleep 
till  late.  The  house  sank  early  into  the  deep  repose  fol- 
lowing emotional  stress,  the  nurse's  lamp  brightening 
one  window  in  its  black  bulk.  Outside  the  night  brooded, 
deep  and  calm,  with  whispers  in  the  great  oak's  foliage, 
open  field  and  wooded  slope  pale  and  dark  under  the 
light  of  stars.  Mark,  his  hands  clasped  behind  his  head, 
looked  at  the  blue  space  of  the  window  and  dreamed  of 
Lorry.  He  saw  her  in  various  guises,  a  procession  of 
Lorrys  passing  across  the  blue  background.  Then  he 
saw  her  as  she  had  been  the  last  time  and  that  Lorry 
had  not  passed  with  the  rest  of  the  procession.  She  had 
lingered,  reluctant  to  follow  the  fleeting,  unapproachable 

295 


Treasure  and  Trouble  Therewith 

others,  had  seemed  to  draw  nearer  to  him,  almost  with 
her  hands  out,  almost  with  a  shining  question  in  her  eyes. 
Holding  that  picture  of  her  in  his  heart  he  finally  fell 
asleep. 

Some  hours  later  he  woke  with  the  sound  of  her  voice 
in  his  ears.  She  was  calling  him — "Mark,  Mark,"  a 
clear,  thin  cry,  imploring  and  urgent.  He  sat  up  answer- 
ing, heard  his  own  voice  suddenly  fill  the  silence  loud  and 
startling,  "Lorry,"  and  then  again  lower,  "Lorry."  For 
a  moment  he  had  no  idea  where  he  was,  then  the  starlight 
through  the  open  window  showed  him  the  familiar  outlines3 
and,  looking  stupidly  about,  he  repeated,  dazed,  certain 
he  had  heard  her,  "Lorry,  where  are  you?" 

The  silence  of  the  house,  the  large  outer  silence  en- 
folding it,  answered  him. 

He  was  fully  awake  now  and  rose.  The  reality  of  the 
cry  in  its  tenuous,  piercing  importunity,  grew  as  his 
mind  cleared.  He  could  not  believe  but  that  he  had  heard 
it,  that  she  might  not  be  somewhere  near  calling  to  him 
in  distress.  He  opened  the  door  and  looked  into  the  hall 
— not  a  sound.  At  the  foot  of  the  stairs  the  light  from 
his  mother's  room  fell  across  the  darkness  in  a  golden 
slant.  He  turned  and  went  to  the  window.  His  awaken- 
ing had  been  so  startling,  his  sense  of  revelation  so  acute, 
that  for  the  moment  he  had  no  consciousness  of  prohibit- 
ing conditions.  When  he  looked  out  of  the  window  he 
would  have  felt  no  surprise  if  he  had  seen  Lorry  belo^ 
gazing  up  at  him. 

After  that  he  stood  for  a  space  realizing  the  fact.  He 
had  had  no  dream,  the  voice  had  come  to  him  from  her,  a 
summons  from  the  depths  of  some  dire  necessity.  He 
knew  it  as  well  as  if  he  had  heard  her  say  so,  as  if  she 
had  been  outside  the  window  calling  him  to  come.  He 
knew  she  was  beset,  needed  him,  that  her  soul  had  cried 

296 


Mark  Sees  the  Dawn 


to  his  and  in  its  passionate  urgency  had  broken  through 
material  limitations. 

He  struck  a  match  and  consulted  his  watch — a  quarter 
to  four.  Then,  as  he  dressed  and  threw  some  clothes  into 
a  bag,  he  thought  over  the  quickest  route  to  the  city. 
A  stage  line  to  Stockton  crossed  the  valley  eight  miles 
to  the  south.  By  making  a  rapid  hike  he  could  catch  the 
down  stage  and  be  in  San  Francisco  before  midday.  He 
scrawled  a  few  lines  to  Sadie,  stood  the  note  up  across 
the  face  of  the  clock,  and,  his  shoes  in  his  hand,  stole 
down  the  stairs  and  out  of  the  house. 

The  country  slept  under  the  hush  that  comes  before 
the  dawn.  There  was  not  a  rustle  in  the  roadside  trees, 
a  whisper  in  the  grass.  Farmhouse  and  mansion  showed 
in  forms  of  opaque  black,  muffled  in  black  foliage  and 
backed  by  a  blue-black  horizon.  Above  the  heavens 
spread,  vast  and  far  removed,  paved  with  stars  and 
mottlings  of  star  dust.  The  sparkling  dome,  pricked 
with  white  points  and  blotted  with  milky  stains,  diffused 
a  high,  aerial  luster,  palely  clear  above  the  land's  dense 
darkness.  Mark  looked  up  at  it,  unaware  of  its  splen- 
dors, mind  and  glance  raised  in  an  instinctive  appeal  to 
some  remote  source  of  strength  in  those  illumined  heights. 

As  his  glance  fell  back  to  the  road  he  suddenly  knew 
where  he  had  seen  the  eyes.  There  was  no  jar  of  recogni- 
tion, no  startled  uncertainty.  He  saw  them  looking  at 
him  from  the  face  of  Boye  Mayer,  standing  in  Lorry's 
drawing-room  with  his  hands  resting  on  the  back  of  a 
chair. 

He  stopped  dead,  staring  ahead.  Lorry's  summons, 
the  tramp,  the  man  in  evening  dress  against  the  back- 
ground of  the  rich  room — all  these  drew  to  a  single  point. 
What  their  connection  was  he  could  not  guess,  was  only 
aware  of  them  as  related,  and,  accepting  that,  forged 

297 


Treasure  and  Trouble  Therewith 

forward  at  a  swinging  stride.  The  beat  of  his  feet  fell 
rhythmic  on  the  dust;  his  breath  came  deep-drawn  and 
even ;  his  eyes  pierced  the  dark  ahead,  fixed  on  landmarks 
to  be  passed,  goals  to  be  gained,  stations  to  leave  behind 
him  in  his  race  to  the  woman  who  had  called. 

Unnoted  by  him  a  pale  edge  of  light  stole  along  the 
east,  throwing  out  the  high,  crumpled  line  of  the  Sierra. 
The  landscape  developed  from  nebulous  shadows  and  en- 
foldings  to  hill  slopes,  tree  domes,  the  clustered  group- 
ings of  barns.  A  stir  passed,  frail  and  delicate,  over  the 
earth's  face,  a  light  tentative  trembling  in  the  leaves,  a 
quiver  through  the  grain.  Birds  made  sleepy  twitterings ; 
the  chink  of  running  water  came  from  hidden  stream 
beds;  plowed  fields  showed  the  striping  of  furrows  on 
which  the  dew  glistened  in  a  silvery  crust.  The  day  was 
at  hand. 


CHAPTER  XXXI 

REVELATION 

WHILE  Lorry  was  still    queening  it  in  the  front 
of  Mrs.  Kirkham's  box,  while  Chrystie  was  toss- 
ing in  her  strange  bed,  while  Boye  Mayer  was 
packing  his  trunk,  while  Mark  was  thinking  of  Lorry  in 
his  room  under  the  eaves,  Garland,  one  of  the  actors  in 
this  drama  now  drawing  to  its  climax,  stood  against  the 
chain  of  a  ferry  boat  bumping  its  way  into  the  Market 
Street  slip. 

He  was  over  it  first,  racing  up  the  gangway  and  along 
the  echoing  passage  to  the  street.  People  growled  as  he 
elbowed  them,  plowed  a  passage  through  their  slow- 
moving  ranks,  and  ran  for  the  wheeling  lights  of  the 
trolleys.  He  made  a  dash  for  one,  leaped  on  its  step, 
and  holding  to  an  upright,  stood,  breathing  quickly,  as 
the  car  clanged  its  way  up  the  great  thoroughfare.  He 
had  to  change  by  the  Call  Building,  and  his  heart  was 
hammering  on  his  ribs  as  he  dropped  off  the  second  car 
at  the  corner  of  Pancha's  street. 

Up  its  dim  perspective  he  could  see  the  two  ground 
glass  globes  at  the  Vallejo's  steps.  He  wanted  to  run 
but  did  not  dare — the  habits  of  the  hunted  still  held — 
and  he  walked  as  fast  as  he  could,  sending  his  glance 
ahead  for  her  windows.  When  he  saw  light  gleaming 
from  them  his  head  drooped  in  a  spasm  of  relief.  All  the 
way  down  the  fear  that  she  might  be  in  a  hospital — a 
public  place  dangerous  for  him  to  visit — had  tortured 
him. 

299 


Treasure  and  Trouble  Therewith 

Gushing,  behind  the  desk,  yawning  over  the  evening 
paper,  roused  at  the  sight  of  him  and  showed  a  desire  to 
talk.  At  the  sentence  that  "Miss  Lopez  was  gettin'  along 
all  right,"  the  visitor  moved  off  to  the  stairs.  He  again 
wanted  to  run  but  he  felt  Cushing's  eyes  on  his  back  and 
made  a  sober  ascent  till  the  turn  of  the  landing  hid  him; 
then  he  rushed.  At  her  door  he  knocked  and  heard  her 
voice,  low  and  querulous: 

"Who  is  it  now?" 

"The  old  man,"  he  whispered,  his  mouth  to  the  crack. 
It  was  opened  by  her  and  he  had  her  in  his  arms. 

Joy  at  the  sight  and  feel  of  her,  the  knowledge  that 
she  was  not  as  he  had  pictured  in  desperate  case,  made 
him  speechless.  He  could  only  press  her  against  him, 
hold  her  off  and  look  into  her  face,  his  own  working, 
broken  words  of  love  and  pity  coming  from  him.  His 
unusual  display  of  emotion  affected  her,  deeply  stirred 
on  her  own  account,  and  she  clung  to  him,  weak  tears 
running  down  her  cheeks,  caressing  him  with  hands  that 
said  what  her  shaking  lips  could  not  utter. 

He  supported  her  to  the  sofa  and  laid  her  there,  cover- 
ing her,  soothing  her,  his  concern  finding  expression  in 
low,  crooning  sounds  such  as  women  make  over  their  sick 
babies.  When  she  was  quieted  he  drew  the  armchair  up 
beside  her,  and,  his  hand  stroking  hers,  asked  about  her 
illness.  He  had  read  in  the  paper  that  it  was  a  nervous 
collapse  caused  by  overwork,  and  he  chided  her  gently. 

"What  did  you  keep  on  for  when  you  were  so  tuckered 
out?  Why  didn't  you  let  up  on  it  sooner?  You  could  'a 
stood  the  expense,  and  if  you  didn't  want  to  use  your 
own  money  what's  the  matter  with  mine?" 

"I  didn't  want  to  stop,"  she  murmured.  "Every  day 
I  kept  thinking  I'd  be  all  right." 

"Oh,  hon,  that  don't  show  good  sense.  How  can  I  keep 

300 


Revelation 


up  my  lick  if  I  can't  trust  you  better?  You've  pretty 
near  finished  me.  I  come  on  it  in  a  paper  up  there  in  the 
hills — God,  I  didn't  know  what  struck  me.  It's  tore  me 
to  pieces." 

His  look  bore  testimony  to  his  words.  He  was  old, 
seamed  with  lines,  fallen  away  from  his  robust  sturdiness. 
She  suddenly  seemed  unable  to  bear  all  this  weight  of 
pitifulness — his,  hers,  the  world's  outside  them.  At  first 
she  had  resolved  to  keep  the  real  cause  of  her  illness 
secret.  But  now  his  devastated  look,  his  pathetic  tender- 
ness, shattered  her.  She  was  a  child  again,  longing  to 
creep  into  the  arms  that  would  have  held  her  against  all 
harm,  droop  on  the  rough  breast  where  she  had  always 
found  sympathy.  As  the  truth  had  come  out  under 
Crowder's  kindness,  the  truth  came  again.  But  this  time 
there  were  no  reservations;  the  rich  girl  took  her  place 
in  the  story.  Others  might  see  in  that  a  mitigating  cir- 
cumstance but  not  the  man  who  valued  her  above  all  girls, 
rich  or  poor. 

Garland  listened  closely,  hardly  once  interrupting  her. 
When  she  finished  his  rage  broke  and  she  was  frightened. 
Years  had  passed  since  she  had  seen  him  aroused  and  now 
his  lowering  face,  darkened  with  passion,  his  choked 
words,  brought  back  memories  of  him  raging  tremen- 
dously in  old  dead  battles  with  miner  and  cattleman. 

"Pa,  Pa,"  she  cried,  stretching  her  hands  toward  him, 
"what's  the  use — what  can  you  do?  It's  finished  and 
over;  getting  mad  and  cursing  won't  make  it  any 
better." 

But  he  cursed,  flinging  the  chair  from  him,  rumbling 
out  his  wrath,  beyond  the  bounds  of  reason. 

"Don't  talk  so,"  she  implored  and  slid  off  the  sofa  to 
her  feet.  "They'll  hear  you  in  the  next  room.  I  can't 
afford  to  let  this  get  around." 

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Treasure  and  Trouble  Therewith 

For  the  first  time  in  her  knowledge  of  him  he  was  deaf 
to  the  claims  of  her  welfare. 

"Who  is  this  fancy  gentleman?"  he  cried.  'Where  is 
he?" 

"Oh,  why  did  I  tell  you?"  she  wailed.  "What  got  into 
me  to  tell  you!  I  can't  fight  with  you — I  won't  let  you 
go  to  him.  There's  no  use — it's  all  over,  it's  done,  it's 
ended.  Can't  you  see?" 

He  made  no  answer  and  she  went  to  him,  catching  at 
his  arm  and  shoulder,  staring,  desperately  pleading,  into 
his  face. 

"You  talk  like  a  fool,"  he  said,  pushing  her  away. 
"This  is  my  job.  Where  is  he?" 

As  she  had  said,  she  was  unable  to  fight  with  him. 
Her  enfeebled  body  was  empty  of  all  resistant  force. 
Now,  as  she  clung  to  him,  she  felt  its  sickly  weakness,  its 
drained  energies.  She  wanted  peace,  the  sofa  again,  the 
swaying  walls  to  steady,  the  angry  man  to  be  her  father, 
quiet  in  the  armchair.  She  forgot  her  promise  to  Crow- 
der,  her  pledged  word,  everything,  but  that  there  was  a 
way  to  end  the  racking  scene.  Holding  to  the  hand  that 
thrust  her  aside  she  said  softly: 

"There's  a  punishment  coming  to  him  that's  better 
than  anything  you  can  give." 

His  glance  shifted  to  hers,  arrested. 

"What  you  mean?" 

"He's  done  something  worse  than  the  way  he's  treated 
me — something  the  law  can  get  him  for." 

"What?" 

"Sit  down  quiet  here  and  I'll  tell  you." 

She  pointed  to  the  overturned  chair  and  made  a  step 
toward  the  sofa.  He  remained  motionless,  watching  her 
with  somberly  doubting  eyes. 

"It's  true,"  she  said;  "every  word.  It  comes  from 

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Revelation 


Charlie  Crowder.  When  you  hear  it  you'll  see,  and  you'll 
see  too  that  you'll  only  mix  things  up  by  butting  in. 
They're  getting  their  net  ready  for  him,  and  they'll  have 
him  in  it  before  the  week's  out." 

This  time  the  words  had  their  effect.  He  picked  up 
the  chair  and  brought  it  to  the  sofa.  She  sat  there  erect, 
her  legs  curled  up  beside  her,  and  told  him  the  story  of 
Boye  Mayer  and  the  stolen  money. 

The  light  was  behind  him  and  against  it  she  saw  him 
as  a  formless  shape,  the  high,  rounded  back  of  the  chair 
projecting  above  his  head.  The  silence  with  which  he 
listened  she  set  down  to  interest,  and  feeling  that  she  had 
gained  his  attention,  that  his  wrath  was  appeased  by  this 
unexpected  retribution,  her  own  interest  grew  and  the 
narrative  flowed  from  her  lips,  fluent,  complete,  full  of 
enlightening  detail. 

Once  or  twice  at  the  start  he  had  stirred,  the  rickety 
chair  creaking  under  his  weight.  Then,  slouched  against 
its  back,  he  had  settled  into  absolute  stillness.  To  any- 
one not  seeing  him,  it  might  have  seemed  that  the  girl 
was  talking  to  herself,  pauses  that  she  made  for  comment 
passed  in  silence,  questions  she  now  and  then  put  re- 
mained unanswered.  Peering  at  him  she  made  him  out,  a 
brooding  mass,  his  chin  sunk  into  his  collar,  his  hands 
clasped  over  his  waist,  his  eyes  fixed  on  the  floor. 

When  she  was  done  he  stayed  thus  for  a  moment  ap- 
parently so  buried  in  thought  that  he  could  not  rouse 
|  himself. 

"Well,"  she  said,  surprised  at  his  silence,  "isn't  it  true 
what  I  said?  Hasn't  fate  rounded  things  up  for  him?" 

The  chair  creaked  as  he  moved,  heavily  as  if  with  an 
effort.  He  laid  his  hands  on  the  arms  and  drew  himself 
forward. 

"Yes,"  he  muttered,  "it  sounds  pretty  straight." 

303 


Treasure  and  Trouble  Therewith 

"Would  anything  you  could  do  beat  that?" 

He  sat  humped  together  looking  at  the  floor,  his  power- 
ful, gnarled  hands  gripping  at  the  chair  arms.  She  could 
see  the  top  of  his  head  with  a  bald  place  showing  through 
the  thick,  low-lying  grizzle  of  hair. 

"Nup,"  he  said,  "I  guess  not." 

He  heaved  himself  up  and  walked  across  the  room  to 
the  window. 

"It's  as  hot  as  hell  in  here,"  he  growled  as  he  fumbled 
at  the  sash. 

"Hot!"  she  exclaimed.  "Why,  it's  cold.  What's  the 
matter  with  you?" 

"It's  these  barred-up  city  places;  they  knock  me  out. 
I  smother  in  'em."  He  threw  back  the  window  and  stood 
in  the  opening.  "I'll  shut  it  in  a  minute." 

She  pulled  up  the  Navajo  blanket  and  cowering  under 
it  said  with  vengeful  zest: 

"I  guess  there  won't  be  a  more  surprised  person  in  this 
burg  than  Mr.  Boye  Mayer  when  they  come  after  him." 

"Do  you  know  when  they're  calculatin'  to  do  it?" 

"Thursday  or  Friday.  Charlie  said  he  was  going  to 
give  the  Express  people  his  information  some  time  to- 
morrow and  after  they'd  fixed  things  he'd  spring  the 
story  in  the  Despatch." 

"If  he  gives  it  in  tomorrow  they'll  have  him  by  eve- 
ning." 

"I  don't  think  they'll  be  in  any  rush.  Mr.  Mayer's 
not  going  to  skip ;  he's  too  busy  with  his  courting." 

There  was  no  reply,  and  pulling  the  blanket  higher,  for 
the  night  air  struck  cold,  she  went  on  in  her  embittered 
self-torment : 

"I  wanted  to  give  him  a  jolt  myself  and  I  tried,  but 
I  might  as  well  have  stayed  out.  You  and  me  show  up 
pretty  small  when  the  law  gets  busy.  That's  the  time 

304 


Revelation 


for  us  to  lie  low  and  watch.  And  he  thinking  himself  so 
safe,  drawing  out  all  the  money.  Maybe  it  was  to  buy 
her  presents  or  get  his  wedding  clothes.  I'd  like " 

The  voice  from  the  window  interrupted  her. 

"That  paper — the  one  he  had  under  the  floor — Crowder 
said  a  piece  was  tore  out?" 

"Yes,  part  of  his  correspondence  letter — the  last 
paragraph  about  me.  Don't  you  remember  it?  It  was 
that  one  after  'The  Zingara'  started,  way  back  in  August. 
I  showed  it  to  you  here  one  evening.  I  thought  maybe 
Mayer  had  read  it  and  that  was  what  brought  him  to 
see  me — got  him  sort  of  curious.  But  Charlie  thinks  he 
wasn't  bothering  about  papers  just  then.  He  had  it  on 
him  and  used  it  to  wrap  up  the  money  and  that  piece  got 
torn  out  someway  by  accident." 

"Um — looks  that  way." 

The  current  of  air  was  chilling  the  room,  and  Pancha, 
shivering  under  the  blanket,  protested. 

"Say,  Pa,  aren't  you  going  to  shut  that  window?  It's 
letting  in  an  awful  draught."  He  made  no  movement  to 
do  so,  and,  surprised  at  his  indifference  to  her  comfort, 
she  said  uneasily,  "You  ain't  got  a  fever,  have  you?" 

"Let  me  alone,"  he  muttered.  "Didn't  I  tell  you  these 
het-up  rooms  knock  me  out." 

She  was  silent — a  quality  in  his  voice,  a  husky  thinness 
as  if  its  vigor  was  pinching  out,  made  her  anxious.  He 
was  worn  to  the  bone,  the  shade  of  himself.  She  slid  her 
feet  to  the  floor,  and  throwing  off  the  blanket  said : 

"Looks  like  to  me  something  is  the  matter  with  you. 
The  room  ain't  hot." 

"Oh,  forget  it.  For  God's  sake,  quit  this  talk  about 
me." 

He  closed  the  window  and  turned  to  her.  As  he  ad- 
vanced the  lamp's  glare  fell  full  on  him  and  she  saw  his 

305 


Treasure  and  Trouble  Therewith 

face  glistening  with  perspiration  and  darkened  with  un- 
natural hollows.  In  that  one  moment,  played  upon  by 
the  revealing  side  light,  it  was  like  the  face  of  a  skeleton 
and  she  rose  with  a  frightened  cry. 

"Pop!    You  are  sick.     You  look  like  you  were  dead." 

She  made  a  step  toward  him  and  before  her  advance 
he  stopped,  bristling,  fierce,  like  a  bear  confronted  by  a 
hunter. 

"You  let  me  alone.  You're  crazy — sit  down.  Ain't  I 
gone  through  enough  without  you  pickin'  on  me  about 
how  I  look?" 

She  shrank  back,  scared  by  his  violence. 

"But  I  can't  help  it.  The  room's  like  ice  and  you're 
sweating.  I  saw  it  on  your  forehead." 

He  almost  roared. 

"And  supposin'  I  am?  Ain't  I  given  you  a  reason? 

Sweating?  A  Chihuahua  dog  'ud  sweat  in  tliis  d d 

place.  It's  like  a  smelting  furnace."  With  a  stiff,  un- 
certain hand  he  felt  in  his  pocket,  drew  out  a  bandanna 
and  ran  it  over  his  face.  "God,  you'd  think  there  was 
nothin'  in  the  world  but  the  way  I  look!  I  hiked  down 
from  the  hills  on  the  run  to  see  you  and  you  nag  at  me 
till  I'm  almost  sorry  I  come." 

That  was  too  much  for  her.  The  tears,  ready  to  flow 
at  a  word,  poured  out  of  her  eyes,  and  she  held  out  her 
arms  to  him,  piteously  crying: 

"Oh,  don't  say  that.  Don't  scold  at  me.  I  wouldn't 
say  it  if  I  didn't  care.  What  would  I  do  if  you  got  sick 
— what  would  I  do  if  I  lost  you?  You're  all  I  have  and 
I'm  so  lonesome." 

He  ran  to  her,  clasped  her  close,  laid  his  cheek  on  her 
head  as  she  leaned  against  him  feebly  weeping.  And 
what  he  said  made  it  all  right — it  was  his  fault,  he  was 
ugly,  but  it  was  because  of  what  she'd  told  him.  That 

306 


Revelation 


ad  riled  him  all  up.  Didn't  she  know  every  hurt  that 
ame  to  her  made  him  mad  as  a  she-bear  when  they're 
fter  its  cub? 

"Will  you  be  back  tomorrow?"  she  said  when  he  started 
ogo. 

"Yes,  in  the  morning.     Eight  be  too  early?" 

"No — but "  her  eyes  were  wistful,  her  hands  re- 

jctant  to  loose  his.  "Will  you  have  to  leave  the  city 
oon?" 

"I  guess  so,  honey." 

"Tomorrow?" 

"Maybe — but  we'll  get  a  line  on  that  in  the  morning." 

"I  wish  you  could  stay,  just  for  one  day,"  she  pleaded. 

"I'll  tell  you  then.  What  you  want  to  do  now  is  rest. 
leep  tight  and  don't  worry  no  more.  It's  going  to  be 
11  right." 

He  gave  her  a  kiss  and  from  the  doorway  a  farewell 
od  and  smile. 


CHAPTER  XXXII 

THE  VOICE  IN  THE  NIGHT 

WHEN  Garland  passed  through  the  lobby  the  hal 
clock  showed  him  it  was  after  midnight.     Cush 
ing,  roused  from  a  nap,  looked  up  at  the  sound 
of  his  step,  and  asked  how  Miss  Lopez  was.     "Gettin5  on 
first  rate,"  he  called  back  cheerily  as  he  opened  the  door 
and  went  out. 

His  immediate  desire  was  for  silence  and  seclusion — a 
place  where  he  could  recover  from  the  stunned  condition 
in  which  Pancha's  story  had  left  him.     Before  he  coulc 
act  on  it  he  would  have  to  get  back  to  a  clearness  where 
coordinated  thought  was  possible.     He  walked  down  th 
street  in  the  direction  of  his  old  lodgings ;  he  had  a  latch 
key  and  could  get  to  his  room  without  being  heard.     O 
the  way  he  found  himself  skirting  the  open  space  of  Sout 
Park,  an  oval  of  darkness,  light-touched  at  intervals  am 
encircled  by  a  looming  wall  of  houses.     Here  and  ther 
on  benches  huddled  figures  sat,  formless  and  immovabl 
less   like   human  beings   than   ghosts    come   back   in   th 
depths   of  night   to   find   themselves   denied   an   entrance 
into    life,    and    drooping    disconsolate.       His    footstep 
sounded  abnormally  loud,  thrown  back  from  the  house 
buffeted    between    their    frowning    fronts,    as    if    the 
were    maliciously    determined    to     reveal    his     presen 
wanted  him  to  know  that  they  too  were  leagued  against 
him.      He   stumbled   over   the   sidewalk's    coping   to   the 
grass    and    stole    to    a    bench    under    the    shade    of 
tree. 

308 


tie 


The  Voice  in  the  Night 


There  he  burrowed  upward  toward  the  light  through 
the  avalanche  that  had  fallen  on  him. 

At  first  there  was  only  a  gleam  of  it,  a  central  glow. 
About  this  his  thoughts  circled  like  May  flies  round  a 
lamp,  irresistibly  attracted  and  seemingly  as  purposeless. 
"Hello,  Panchita!  Ain't  you  the  wonder.  Your  best 
beau's  proud  of  you" — that  was  the  glow.  He  saw  the 
words  traced  at  the  end  of  the  column,  saw  a  hand  tear- 
ing the  piece  out,  saw  into  the  mind  that  directed  the 
hand,  knew  its  conviction  of  the  paper's  value. 

It  was  some  time  before  he  could  get  away  from  it; 
divert  his  mental  energies  to  this  night,  the  hour  and  its 
necessities,  and  the  next  day,  the  formidable  day,  now 
so  close  at  hand. 

From  a  clock  tower  nearby  two  strokes  chimed  out, 
dropping  separate  and  rounded  on  the  silence.  They 
dropped  on  him  like  tangible  things,  calling  him  to  action. 
He  sat  up,  his  brain-clouds  dispersed,  and  thought.  Any 
information  of  the  lost  bandit  would  gain  clemency  for 
Mayer,  and  Mayer  had  a  clew.  Knapp  would  remember 
the  paper  taken  from  his  partner's  coat  and  buried  with 
the  money.  That  would  lead  them  to  Pancha.  Years 
before  in  Siskiyou  he  had  witnessed  the  cross-examination 
of  a  girl,  daughter  of  an  absconding  murderer,  and  the 
scene  in  the  crowded  courtroom  of  the  wild  mountain 
town  rose  in  his  memory,  with  Pancha  as  the  central 
figure.  They  would  badger  and  break  her  down  as  they 
had  the  murderer's  daughter.  She  would  know  every- 
thing. There  would  be  no  secrets  from  her  any  more. 

In  an  uprush  of  despair  his  life  unrolled  before  him, 
all,  it  now  seemed,  progressing  to  this  climax.  Step  by 
step  he  had  advanced  on  it,  builded  up  to  it  as  if  it  were 
the  goal  of  his  desire.  Wanting  to  keep  her  in  ignorance 
he  had  created  a  situation  that  had  worked  out  worse  for 

309 


Treasure  and  Trouble  Therewith 

her  than  for  him.  He  could  fly,  leave  her  to  face  it  alone, 
enlightenment  come  with  shame  and  ignominy.  It  wasn't 
fair,  it  wasn't  human.  If  it  had  only  been  himself  that 
he  had  ruined  he  wouldn't  have  cared,  he  would  have  been 
glad  to  end  the  whole  thing.  But  under  the  broken  law 
of  his  conduct  he  had  held  to  the  greater  law  of  his  love. 
It  was  that  he  would  sacrifice ;  be  untrue  to  what  had  sus- 
tained him  as  his  one  ideal.  He  could  have  cried  to  the 
heavens  that  to  let  her  know  him  for  what  he  was,  was  a 
retribution  too  great  for  his  sins.  Death  would  have  been 
a  release  but  he  could  not  die.  He  must  live  and  make 
one  final  fight  to  preserve  the  belief  that  was  his  life's 
sole  apology. 

That  determination  toughened  him,  his  despair  past, 
and  wrestling  with  the  problem  he  came  upon  its  solution 
and  with  it  his  punishment. 

He  would  tell  the  man,  give  him  warning  and  let  him 
go.  There  was  plenty  of  time ;  the  authorities  were  not 
yet  informed;  no  one  was  on  the  watch.  Mayer  could 
leave  the  city  that  morning  and  make  the  Mexican  border 
by  night.  It  was  the  only  way  out  and  it  dragged  his 
penance  with  it — Pancha  unavenged,  the  enemy  rewarded, 
the  prison  doors  set  wide  for  the  flight  of  their  mutual 
despoiler. 

Three  strokes  chimed  out  and  he  rose,  trying  to  step 
lightly  with  feet  that  felt  heavy  as  lead.  It  was  very 
silent,  as  if  the  night  and  the  brooding  city  were  at  one 
in  that  conspiracy  to  impress  him  with  a  sense  of  their 
hostility.  The  houses  were  still  malignly  watchful,  again 
took  up  and  tossed  about  his  footsteps,  echoed  them  from 
wall  to  wall  till  he  wondered  doors  did  not  open,  people 
did  not  come.  On  the  main  street  he  shrank  by  shop 
window  and  closed  doorway,  gliding  blackly  across  a 
gush  of  light,  slipping,  a  moving  darkness,  against  the 

310 


The  Voice  in  the  Night 


deeper  darkness  of  shuttered  lower  stories.  He  had  it 
almost  to  himself — a  policeman  lounging  on  a  corner,  a 
reveler  reeling  by  with  indignant  mutterings,  one  or  two 
night  workers  footing  it  homeward  to  rest  and  bed. 

At  the  door  of  a  drugstore  he  stopped  and  looked  in. 
A  frowsy  woman  was  talking  across  the  counter  to  a 
clerk  whose  bald  head  shone,  glossy  as  ivory,  above  the 
gray  fatigue  of  his  face.  In  a  corner  was  a  telephone 
booth.  Garland  opened  the  door,  then  started  as  a  bell 
jangled  stridently  and  the  bald-headed  man  craned  his 
neck  and  the  woman  whisked  round. 

"Telephone,"  he  muttered,  tentative  on  the  sill. 

The  clerk,  too  listless  for  words,  jerked  his  head  toward 
the  booth  and  then  handed  the  woman  a  package.  As 
Garland  entered  the  booth  he  heard  her  dragging  step 
cross  the  floor  and  the  bell  jangle  on  her  exit. 

While  he  waited  he  struggled  for  a  closer  control  on 
the  rage  that  possessed  him.  He  had  decided  what  he 
would  say  and  he  cleared  his  throat  for  a  free  passage  of 
the  words  that  were  to  carry  deliverance  to  one  he  longed 
to  kill.  He  had  expected  a  wait — the  man,  confidant  in 
his  security,  would  be  sleeping — but  almost  on  top  of  his 
request  for  Mr.  Mayer  came  a  voice,  wide-awake  and 
Incisive : 

"Hello,  who  is  it?" 

His  answer  was  very  low,  the  deep  tones  hoarse  despite 
lis  effort. 

"Is  this  Mr.  Boye  Mayer?" 

"Yes.     What  do  you  want?    Who  are  you?" 

The  voice  fitted  his  conception  of  the  man,  hard,  com~ 
nanding,  with  something  sharply  imperious  in  its  cultia 
rated  accents.  He  thought  he  detected  fear  in  it. 

"It  don't  matter  who  I  am.  I  got  somethin'  to  say  toi 
rou  that  matters.  It's  time  for  you  to  skip." 

311 


Treasure  and  Trouble  Therewith 

There  was  a  momentary  pause,  then  the  word  was 
repeated,  seemed  to  be  ejected  quickly  as  if  delivered  on 
a  rising  breath: 

"Skip?" 

«Yes — get  out.  You've  got  tune — till  tomorrow  after- 
noon. They'll  be  lookin'  for  you  then." 

Again  there  was  that  slight  pause.  When  the  voice 
answered,  trepidation  was  plain  in  it. 

"Who's  looking  for  me?    What  are  you  talking  about?" 

It  was  Garland's  turn  to  pause.  For  a  considering 
moment  he  sought  his  words,  then  he  gave  them  in  short 
telegraphic  sentences : 

"End  of  August.  The  tules — opposite  the  Ariel  Club 
Twelve  thousand.  Whatcheer  House,  Sacramento 
Harry  Romaine." 

The  pause  was  longer,  then  the  voice  came  breathless 
shaken  : 

"What  in  hell  do  you  mean  by  this  gibberish?" 

"I  guess  that's  all  right.  You  don't  need  to  play  an] 
baby  business.  You  know  now  and  /  know,  and  by  to 
morrow  evening  the  Express  company  and  the  police'l 
know." 

A  stammering  of  oaths  came  along  the  wire,  a  burst  o: 
maledictions,  interspersed  by  threats.  Garland  cut  int< 
it  with: 

"That  don't  help  any.  You  ain't  got  time  to  wast< 
that  way.  You  want  to  make  the  Mexican  border  bj 
tomorrow  night  and  to  do  that  you  got  to  go  quick." 

The  man's  anger  seemed  to  rise  to  a  pitch  of  furiou 
incoherence.  His  words,  shot  out  in  a  storm  of  passioi 
and  fear,  were  transmitted  in  a  stuttering  jumble  o 
sound,  from  which  phrases  broke,  here  and  there  rising 
into  clearness.  Garland  caught  one:  "Who's  turnec 
you  loose  on  this?  Who's  behind  it?"  and  the  restrain 


The  Voice  in  the  Night 


he  had  put  on  himself  gave  way.  He  laid  his  hand  on 
the  shelf  before  him  as  something  to  seize  and  wrenched 
at  it. 

"If  I  was  there  you'd  know — I'd  make  it  plain.  And 
maybe  you  guess.  You  thought  you'd  struck  someone 
who  was  helpless.  But  she  could  pay  you  back  and  she 
has." 

He  stopped,  realizing  what  he  was  saying.  Through 
the  singing  of  the  blood  in  his  ears  the  answering  words 
came  as  an  unintelligible  mutter.  With  an  unsteady  hand 
he  hung  up  the  receiver,  his  breath  beating  in  loud  gasps 
on  the  stillness  that  had  so  suddenly  fallen  on  the  small, 
walled-in  place.  For  a  space  he  sat  crouched  in  the 
chair,  trying  to  subdue  the  pounding  of  his  heart,  the 
shaking  of  his  limbs.  Then,  stealthily,  like  a  guilty 
thing,  he  opened  the  door  and  came  out.  From  above  a 
line  of  bottles  on  the  prescription  desk  the  clerk's  bald 
head  gleamed,  his  eyes  dodging  between  them. 

"It's  all  right,"  Garland  muttered;  "I'm  through," 
and  shambled  to  the  door  with  its  jangling  bell. 

In  his  room  at  Mrs.  Meeker's  he  threw  himself  dressed 
on  the  bed.  The  shade  was  up  and  through  the  window 
he  could  see  the  long  flank  of  the  new  building  and  above 
it  a  section  of  sky.  He  kept  his  eyes  on  the  night-blue 
strip  and  as  he  lay  there  his  spirit,  all  spring  gone,  sank 
from  depths  to  depths.  He  saw  nothing  before  him  but 
the  life  of  the  outlaw,  and,  mind  and  body  taxed  beyond 
their  powers,  he  longed  for  death. 

Presently  he  slept,  sprawled  on  the  wretched  bed,  the 
light  of  the  dawn  revealing  the  tragedy  of  his  ravaged 
face. 


CHAPTER  XXXIII 
THE  MORNING  THAT  CAME 

WHEN  the  voice  had  ceased  Mayer  stood  trans- 
fixed at  the  phone,  seeing  nothing.     He  fumbled 
the  receiver  back  into  its  hook  and,  wheeling, 
propped  himself  against  the  wall,  his  mouth  slack,  his 
eyelids   drooped  in   sickly   feebleness.      The   final  shock, 
succeeding  the  long  strain,  came  like  a  blow  on  the  head 
leaving  destruction. 

He  got  to  a  chair  and  dropped  into  it,  sweat-bathed, 
feeling  as  if  cold  airs  were  blowing  on  his  damp  skin. 
Sunk  against  the  back,  his  legs  stretched  before  him,  his 
arms  hanging  over  the  sides,  he  lay  shattered.  His  mind 
tried  to  focus  on  what  he  had  heard  and  fell  back  im- 
potent, eddying  downward  through  darkling  depths  like 
a  drowning  swimmer.  A  vast  weakness  invaded  him, 
turning  his  joints  to  water,  giving  him  a  sensation  of 
nausea,  draining  his  strength  till  he  felt  incapable  of 
moving  his  eyes,  which  stared  glassily  at  the  toes  of  his 
shoes. 

Presently  this  passed;  he  raised  his  glance  and  en- 
countered the  clock  face  on  the  mantelpiece.  He  held  to 
it  like  a  hand  that  was  dragging  him  out  of  an  abyss; 
watched  it  grow  from  a  circular  object  to  a  white  dial 
crossed  by  black  hands  and  edged  by  a  ring  of  numerals. 
The  hour  marked  slowly  penetrated  to  his  consciousness — 
a  quarter  to  four.  He  drew  himself  up  and  looked  about ; 
j  saw  his  notes  on  the  desk,  his  hat  on  the  table,  the  match- 
safe  with  a  cigarette  stump  lying  on  its  saucer.  They 

314 


The  Morning  that  Came 


were  like  memorials  from  another  state  of  existence, 
things  that  connected  him  with  a  plane  of  being  that  he 
had  left  long  ago.  He  had  a  vision  of  himself  in  that 
distant  past,  packing  his  trunk,  making  brisk,  satisfac- 
tory jottings  on  a  sheet  of  hotel  paper,  standing  on  the 
hearth  looking  into  Lorry  Alston's  angry  eyes. 

Groaning,  he  dropped  his  head  into  his  hands,  rocking 
on  the  chair,  only  half  aroused.  He  was  aware  of  poign- 
ant misery  without  the  force  to  combat  it,  and  knowing 
he  must  act  could  only  remember.  Irrelevant  pictures, 
disconnected,  having  no  point,  chased  across  his  brain — 
the  saloon  in  Fresno  where  he  had  cleaned  the  brasses, 
and,  jostling  it,  Chrystie's  face,  just  before  she  had  wept, 
puckered  like  a  baby's.  He  saw  the  tules  in  the  low  sun, 
the  green  ranks,  the  gold-glazed  streams,  Mark  Burrage 
coming  down  the  long  drawing-room  eying  him  from  under 
thick  brows,  Lorry's  hand  with  its  sparkle  of  rings  hold- 
ing out  the  letter. 

That  last  picture  shook  him  out  of  his  torpor.  He 
lifted  his  head  and  knew  his  surroundings  for  what  they 
were — four  walls  threatening  to  close  in  on  him.  The 
necessity  to  go  loomed  suddenly  insistent,  became  the 
obsessing  matter,  and  he  staggered  to  his  feet.  Flight 
suggested  disguise  and  he  went  to  the  bedroom  and  clawed 
about  in  the  bottom  of  the  cupboard  for  the  old  suitcase 
which  held  the  clothes  he  had  worn  on  his  Sacramento 
trips.  As  he  pulled  it  out  he  remembered  the  side  en- 
trance of  the  hotel  accessible  by  a  staircase  at  the  end  of 
the  hall ;  he  could  slip  out  unseen.  There  would  be  early 
trains,  locals,  going  south ;  an  express  to  be  caught  some- 
where down  the  line.  By  the  next  night  he  could  be 
across  the  Mexican  border.  It  was  the  logical  place,  the 
only  place — he  knew  it  himself  and  the  voice  had  said  so. 

The  Voice!  Obliterated  by  the  mental  chaos  it  had 

315 


Treasure  and  Trouble  Therewith 

caused,  whelmed  in  the  succeeding  rush  of  fear,  it  now 
rose  to  recognition — a  portentous  fact.  He  stood 
stunned,  the  suitcase  dangling  from  his  hands,  immov- 
able in  aghast  wonder  as  if  it  had  just  come  to  his  ears. 
A  voice  without  a  personality,  a  voice  behind  which  he 
could  envisage  no  body,  a  voice  of  warning  dropping  out 
of  the  unknown,  dropping  doom ! 

His  surface  faculties  were  now  obedient  to  his  direc- 
tion and  automatically  responded  to  the  necessity  for 
haste.  As  he  went  about  collecting  his  clothes,  tearing 
up  letters,  opening  drawers,  he  ransacked  his  brain  for  a 
clew  to  the  man's  identity,  tried  to  rehear  the  voice  and 
catch  a  familiar  echo,  went  back  and  forth  over  the 
words.  And  in  the  fevered  restoration  of  them,  the  last 
sentences,  "You  thought  you'd  struck  someone  who  was 
helpless.  But  she  could  pay  you  back  and  she  has," 
brought  light  in  an  illuminating  flash.  "Pancha,"  he 
whispered,  "Pancha,"  and  stood  rooted,  recalling,  search- 
ing the  past,  linking  the  known  with  the  deduced. 

The  man  was  the  bandit,  the  old  lover,  the  one  he  had 
supplanted,  the  one  who  had  written  the  message  on  the 
paper.  He  had  heard  she  was  sick — come  to  see  her — 
and  she  had  told  him,  called  upon  him  to  avenge  her  as 
she  said  she  would.  And  the  man — he  couldn't — his 
hands  were  tied.  If  Mayer  had  the  paper — and  the  cache 
showed  it  was  gone — Mayer  could  direct  the  pursuit  to 
Pancha  and  to  Pancha's  "best  beau."  So,  fact  marshaled 
behind  fact,  he  drew  to  the  truth,  grasped  it,  knew  why 
he  had  been  warned  and  by  whom. 

Pancha  had  found  out  somehow — but  he  did  not  linger 
on  that;  his  mind  wasted  no  time  filling  profitless  gaps. 
Fiercely  alive  now  it  only  saw  what  counted.  He  turned 
and  looked  out  of  the  window,  a  glance  in  her  direction. 
She  had  made  good,  kept  her  word,  beaten  him.  The 

316 


The  Morning  that  Came 


feeble  thing,  the  scorned  thing,  that  he  had  kicked  out  of 
his  path,  had  risen  and  destroyed  him.  He  stood  for  a 
still  moment  looking  toward  where  she  was,  triumphant, 
waiting  for  his  arrest,  and  he  muttered,  his  gray  face 
horrible. 

Soon  afterward  he  was  ready,  the  old  hat  and  coat  on, 
the  suitcase  packed.  There  was  a  look  about  for  for- 
gotten details  and  he  attended  to  them  with  swift  com- 
petence. The  papers  on  the  desk — those  expense  ac- 
counts— were  crammed  into  his  pockets,  the  shades  drawn 
up,  the  bed  rumpled  for  the  room  boy's  eye  in  the  morn- 
ing. Then  a  last  sweeping  survey  and  he  turned  out  the 
gas,  opened  the  door  and  peered  into  the  hall.  It 
stretched  vacant  to  the  window  at  the  far  end,  a  sub- 
dued light  showing  its  carpeted  length.  His  nostrils 
caught  its  unaired  closeness,  his  ears  the  heavy  stillness 
of  a  place  enshrining  sleep. 

Night  still  held  the  streets,  at  this  hour  dim,  deserted 
vistas,  looking  larger  than  they  did  by  day.  He  stole 
along  them  feeling  curiously  small,  dwarfed  by  their  wide 
emptiness,  wanting  to  hide  from  their  observation.  It 
was  typical  of  what  the  rest  of  his  life  would  be,  shunning 
the  light,  footing  it  furtively  through  darkness,  forever 
apprehensive,  forever  outcast. 

His  heart  sank  into  blackness,  dense,  illimitable.  It 
stretched  from  him  out  to  the  edges  of  the  world  and  he 
saw  himself  never  escaping  from  it,  groping  through  it 
from  pursuers,  always  retreating,  always  looking  back 
in  fear.  Poverty  would  be  his  close  companion;  make- 
shifts, struggles,  tricks  of  deceit,  the  occupation  of  his 
days.  The  effort  of  new  endeavor  rose  before  him  like  a 
mountain  to  be  climbed  and  for  which  he  had  not  the 
strength ;  the  ease  he  was  reft  of,  a  paradise  only  valued 
now  it  was  lost.  Hate  of  those  who  had  brought  him  so 

317 


Treasure  and  Trouble  Therewith 

low  surged  in  him,  dominating  even  his  misery.  He  set 
his  teeth,  looking  up  at  the  graying  sky,  feeling  the  poison 
pressing  at  his  throat,  aching  in  his  limbs,  burning  at  the 
ends  of  his  fingers. 

There  was  a  faint  diffused  light  when  he  reached  the 
corner  of  Pancha's  street,  the  first  gleam  of  the  coming 
day.  Like  one  who  sees  temptation  placed  before  him  in 
living  form  and  hesitates,  reluctant  yet  impelled,  he  stood 
and  gazed  at  the  front  of  the  Vallejo  Hotel.  The  lamps 
showed  up  a  pinkish  orange,  two  spheres,  concrete  and 
solid,  in  a  swimming,  silvery  unreality.  Beyond  the  steps 
a  man's  figure  moved,  walking  up  the  street,  his  back  to 
Mayer.  It  was  very  quiet ;  the  hush  before  the  city,  turn- 
ing in  its  sleep,  stretched,  breathed  deeply,  and  awak- 
ened. 

Mayer  went  forward  toward  the  lamps. 

He  had  no  definite  intention;  was  actuated  by  no 
formed  resolution;  was,  for  the  moment,  a  being  filled  to 
the  skin  by  a  single  passion.  He  felt  light,  as  if  his 
body  weighed  nothing,  or  as  if  he  might  have  been  carried 
by  a  powerful  current  buoyant  and  beyond  his  control. 
It  took  him  up  the  steps  to  the  door.  Through  a  clear 
space  in  the  ground  glass  panel  he  looked  in  and  saw 
that  the  hall  was  empty.  His  heart  rose  stranglingly  and 
then  contracted;  his  hand  closed  on  the  knob,  turned  it 
and  the  door  opened.  That  unexpected  opening,  the 
vacant  hall  and  stairway  stretching  before  him  like  an 
invitation,  ended  his  lack  of  purpose.  Despair  and  hate 
combined  into  the  will  to  act,  propelled  him  to  a  recog- 
nized goal. 

He  entered  and  mounted  the  stairs. 

Gushing,  having  found  the  long  vigil  at  the  Vallejo 
exhausting,  had  contracted  the  habit  of  slipping  out  in 
the  first  reaches  of  the  dawn  to  a  saloon  down  the  street. 

318 


The  Morning  that  Came 


It  was  a  safe  habit,  for  even  the  few  night-roving  tenants 
the  Vallejo  had  were  housed  at  that  hour,  and  if  a  be- 
lated reveler  should  stray  in,  the  door  was  always  left  on 
the  latch.  Moreover  he  only  stayed  a  few  minutes;  a 
warming  gulp  and  he  was  back  again,  wide-awake  for  the 
call  of  the  day.  His  was  the  figure  Mayer  had  seen 
walking  down  the  street. 

Pancha  was  asleep  and  dreaming.  It  was  a  childish 
dream,  but  it  was  impregnated  with  that  imminent,  hover- 
ing terror  that  often  is  associated  with  the  simple  visions 
of  sleep.  She  was  back  in  the  old  shack  in  Inyo  where 
her  mother  had  died,  and  it  was  raining.  Juana  was  sit- 
ting on  the  side  of  the  bed,  her  dark  hair  parted,  a  shawl 
over  her  head  framing  her  face.  From  the  side  of  the 
bed  she  watched  Pancha,  who  was  sweeping,  sweeping 
with  urgent  haste,  haunted  by  some  obscure  necessity  to 
finish  and  continually  retarded  by  obstacles.  Against  the 
door  the  rain  fell,  loud,  and  then  louder.  It  grew  so  loud 
that  it  ceased  to  be  like  rain,  became  a  shower  of  blows, 
a  fearful  noise,  never  before  made  by  water.  Horror 
fell  upon  them,  a  horror  of  some  sinister  fate  beyond  the 
door.  Juana  held  out  her  arms  and  Pancha,  dropping 
the  broom,  ran  to  her,  and  clinging  close  listened  to  the 
sound  with  a  freezing  heart. 

She  woke  and  it  was  still  there,  not  so  loud,  very  soft, 
and  falling,  between  pauses,  on  her  own  door.  Her  fear 
was  still  with  her  and  she  sat  up,  seeing  the  room  faintly 
charged  with  light.  "Who  is  it?"  she  said  and  heard  her 
voice  a  stifled  whisper,  then,  the  knocking  repeated,  she 
leaped  out  of  bed  and  thrust  her  feet  into  slippers.  She 
was  awake  now  and  thought  of  her  father,  no  one  else 
would  come  at  such  an  hour.  As  she  ran  to  the  door 
she  called,  "What  is  it — is  something  the  matter?" 
Through  the  crack  she  heard  an  answering  whisper, 

319 


Treasure  and  Trouble  Therewith 

"Open — it's  all  right.  Let  me  in."  It  might  have  been 
anybody's  voice.  She  opened  the  door  and  Boye  Mayer 
came  in. 

They  looked  at  one  another  without  words,  and  after 
the  look,  she  began  to  retreat,  backing  across  the  room, 
foot  behind  foot.  He  locked  the  door  and  then  followed 
her.  There  were  pieces  of  furniture  in  the  way  that  she 
skirted  or  pushed  aside,  keeping  her  eyes  on  him,  moving 
without  sound.  She  knew  the  door  into  the  sitting  room 
was  open  and  with  one  hand  she  felt  behind  her  for  the 
frame,  afraid  to  turn  her  back  on  him,  afraid  to  move 
her  glance,  the  withheld  shriek  ready  to  burst  out  when 
he  spoke  or  sprang. 

She  gained  the  doorway  and  backed  through  it  and  here 
breathed  a  hoarse,  "Boye,  what  do  you  want?"  He  made 
no  answer,  stealing  on  her,  and  she  slid  to  the  table  and 
then  round  it,  keeping  it  between  them.  In  the  pale  light, 
eye  riveted  on  eye,  they  circled  it  like  partners  in  a  fan- 
tastic dance,  creeping,  one  away  and  one  in  pursuit,  steps 
noiseless,  movements  delicately  alert.  Her  body  began 
to  droop  and  cower,  her  breath  to  stifle  her;  it  was  im- 
possible to  bear  it  longer.  "Boye!"  she  screamed  and 
made  a  rush  for  the  door.  She  had  shot  the  bolt  back, 
her  hand  was  on  the  knob,  when  he  caught  her.  His  grip 
was  like  iron,  hopeless  to  resist,  but  she  writhed,  tore  at 
him,  felt  herself  pressed  back  against  the  wall,  his  fingers 
on  her  throat. 

It  was  a  quarter  to  five  on  the  morning  of  April  18, 
1906. 

The  first  low  rumble,  the  vibration  beneath  his  feet, 
did  not  penetrate  his  madness.  Then  came  a  road,  an  enor- 
mous agglomeration  of  sound  and  movement,  an  un- 
loosing of  titanic  elements — above  them,  under  them,  on 
them. 

320 


The  Morning  that  Came 


They  were  separated,  each  stricken  aghast,  no  longer 
enemies,  beings  of  a  mutual  life  seized  by  a  mutual  terror. 
The  man  was  paralyzed,  not  knowing  what  it  was,  but 
the  girl,  bred  in  an  earthquake  country,  clasped  her  hands 
over  her  skull  and  bent,  crouching  low  and  screaming, 
"El  temblor!"  The  floor  beneath  them  heaved  and 
dropped  and  rose,  groaning  as  the  ground  throes 
wrenched  it.  From  walls  that  strained  forward  and  sank 
back,  pictures  flew,  shelves  hurled  their  contents.  Break- 
ing free,  upright  for  a  poised  second,  the  long  mirror- 
lunged  across  the  room,  then  crashed  to  its  fall.  On  its 
ruin  plaster  showered,  stretches  of  ceiling,  the  chandelier 
in  a  shiver  of  glass  and  coiled  wires. 

Through  the  dust  they  saw  one  another  as  ghosts,  stag- 
gering, helpless,  dodging  toppling  shapes.  They  shouted 
across  the  chaos  and  only  knew  the  other  had  cried  by 
the  sight  of  the  opened  mouth.  All  sounds  were  drowned 
in  the  surrounding  tumult,  the  roar  of  the  shaken  city 
and  the  temblor's  thunderous  mutter.  Rafters,  crushed 
together,  then  strained  apart,  creaked  and  groaned  and 
crunched.  Walls  receded  with  a  reeling  swing  and  ad- 
vanced with  a  crackling  rush.  The  paper  split  into 
shreds ;  the  plaster  skin  beneath  ripped  open ;  lathes  broke 
in  splintered  ends ;  mortar  came  thudding  from  above  and 
swept  in  a  swirling  drive  about  their  feet. 

He  shouted  to  her  and  made  a  run  for  the  door.  Hang- 
ing to  the  knob  he  was  thrown  from  side  to  side  by  the 
paroxysmal  leaps  of  the  building.  The  door  jammed, 
and,  his  wrenchings  futile,  he  turned  and  dashed  to  the 
window.  Here  again  the  sash  stuck.  He  kicked  it,  fran- 
tic, caught  a  glimpse  of  the  street,  people  in  nightgowns, 
a  chimney  swaying  and  then  falling  in  a  long  drooping 
sweep.  Somewhere  beyond  it  a  high  building  shook  ofr* 
its  cornices  like  a  terrier  shaking  water  from  its  hair. 

321 


Treasure  and  Trouble  Therewith 

Grinding  his  teeth,  cursing,  he  wrenched  at  the  window, 
tore  at  the  clasp,  then  turned  in  desperation  and  sa\* 
the  door,  loosed  by  a  sudden  throe,  swing  open.  Through 
reeling  dust  clouds  Pancha  darted  for  it,  her  flight  like 
the  swoop  of  a  bird,  and  he  followed,  running  crazily 
along  the  heaving  floor. 

The  hall  was  fog-thick  with  powdered  mortar,  and 
careening  like  a  ship  in  a  gale.  He  had  an  impression  of 
walls  zigzagged  with  cracks,  of  furniture,  upturned,  mak- 
ing dives  across  the  passage.  White  figures  were  all 
about;  some  ran,  some  stood  in  doorways  and  all  were 
silent.  He  thrust  a  woman  out  of  his  way  and  felt  her 
move,  acquiescingly,  as  if  indifferent.  Another,  a  child 
in  her  arms,  clawed  at  his  back,  forced  him  aside,  and  as 
she  sped  by  he  saw  the  child's  face  over  her  shoulder, 
placid  and  sweet,  and  caught  her  voice  in  a  moaning  wail, 
"Oh,  my  baby !  Oh,  my  baby !"  A  man,  holding  the  hand 
of  a  girl,  was  thrown  against  the  wall  and  dropped,  the 
girl  tugging  at  him,  trying  to  drag  him  to  his  feet. 
Something,  with  blood  on  its  whiteness,  lay  huddled  across 
the  sill  of  an  open  doorway. 

Pancha  was  ahead  of  him,  a  long  narrow  shape  that  he 
could  just  discern.  A  length  of  ceiling  fell  between  them, 
a  sofa,  like  a  thing  endowed  with  malign  life,  rushed  from 
the  wall  and  blocked  his  passage.  He  scrambled  over  it 
and  saw  the  stair  head,  and  a  clearer  light.  That  meant 
deliverance — the  street  one  flight  below.  The  floor  sagged 
and  cracked,  he  could  feel  it  going,  and  with  a  screaming 
leap  he  threw  himself  at  the  balustrade,  caught  and  clung. 
From  above  he  heard  a  cry,  "Up,  up,  not  down !"  had  a 
vision  of  Pancha  on  the  second  flight,  flying  upward,  and 
himself  plunged  downward  to  the  street. 

The  litter  of  the  great  mirror  lay  across  the  landing, 
the  light  from  the  hall  on  its  shattered  fragments,  broken 

322 


The  Morning  that  Came 


•litterings  amid  a  debris  of  gold.  The  balustrade  broke 
nd  swung  loose,  the  stairs  drooped,  humped  again,  and 
;ave,  sinking  amid  an  onrush  of  walls,  of  splintered 
earns,  of  ceilings  suddenly  gaping  and  discharging  their 
weight  in  a  shoot  of  plaster,  snapped  boards  and  furni- 
ure.  Something  struck  him  and  he  fell  to  his  knees, 
truggled  against  a  smothering  mass,  then  sank,  whelmed 
a  the  crumbling  collapse. 

Pancha  at  the  stair  top,  lurching  from  wall  to  wall, 
elt  a  slow  subsidence,  a  sinking  under  her  feet,  and  then 
he  frenzied  movement  settle  into  a  long,  rocking  swing. 
i.  pallor  of  light  showed  through  the  dust  rack,  and 
naking  her  way  to  it  she  found  an  open  doorway  giving 
>n  a  front  room.  She  passed  through;  crawled  over  a 
leap  of  entangled  furniture  toward  a  window  wide  to 
he  rising  day.  She  thought  she  was  on  the  third  story, 
hen  heard  voices,  looked  out  and  saw  faces  almost  on  a 
evel  with  her  own,  the  street  a  few  feet  below  her,  a 
clouded  massing  of  figures,  moving,  gesticulating,  calling 
ip  to  the  windows.  The  greater  bewilderment  had  shut 
mt  all  lesser  ones.  She  did  not  understand,  did  not  ask 
;o,  only  wanted  to  get  out  and  be  under  the  safe  roof  of 
;he  sky.  Climbing  across  the  sill,  she  found  her  feet  on 
^rass,  stumbled  over  a  broken  railing,  heard  someone 
>hout,  and  was  pulled  to  her  feet  by  two  men.  They 
leld  her  up,  looking  her  over,  shaking  her  a  little.  Both 
cheir  faces  were  as  white  as  if  they  had  been  painted. 

"Are  you  hurt?"  one  of  them  cried,  giving  her  arm  a 
more  violent  shake  as  if  to  jerk  the  answer  out  quickly. 

"Hurt?"  she  stammered.  "No.  I'm  all  right.  But— 
3ut  how  did  I  get  out  this  way — onto  the  street?" 

She  saw  then  that  his  teeth  were  chattering.  Closing 
his  lips  tight  to  hide  it  he  pointed  to  where  she  had  come 
from. 

323 


Treasure  and  Trouble  Therewith 


She  turned  and  looked.  The  Vallejo,  slanting  in  ; 
drunken  sprawl,  its  roof  railing  hanging  from  one  corner 
its  cornices  strewn  on  the  pavement,  had  sunk  to  on 
story.  Built  on  the  made  ground  of  an  old  creek  bed,  i 
had  buckled  and  gone  down,  the  first  and  second  storie 
crumpling  like  a  closed  accordion,  the  top  floor,  dis 
jointed  and  wrecked,  resting  on  their  ruins. 


A' 


CHAPTER  XXXIV 
LOST 

UNT  ELLEN  always  maintained  the  first  shock 
threw  her  out  of  bed,  and  then  she  would  amend 
the  statement  with  a  qualifying,  "At  any  rate  I 
was  on  the  floor  when  Lorry  came  and  I  never  knew  how 
I  got  there."  She  also  said  that  she  thought  it  was  the 
end  of  the  world,  and  pulled  to  her  feet  by  Lorry,  an- 
nounced the  fact,  and  heard  Lorry's  answer,  short  and 
sharp,  "No — it's  an  earthquake.  Don't  talk.  Come 
quick — run !" 

Lorry  threw  a  wrapper  about  her  and  ran  with  her 
along  the  hall,  almost  dark  and  full  of  rending  noises, 
and  down  the  stairs  that  Aunt  Ellen  said  afterward  she 
thought  "were  going  to  come  loose  every  minute."  A 
long  clattering  crash  made  her  scream,  "There — it's  the 
house — we're  killed !"  And  Lorry,  wrestling  with  the 
front  door,  answered  in  that  hard,  breathless  tone,  "No, 
we're  not — we're  all  right."  The  door  swung  open. 
"Mind  the  glass,  don't  step  in  it.  Down  the  steps — on 
the  lawn — quick!" 

They  came  to  a  stand  by  the  front  gate,  were  aware 
of  the  frantic  leaps  of  the  earth  subsiding  into  a  long, 
rhythmic  roll,  and  stood  dumbly,  each  staring  at  the 
other's  face,  unfamiliar  in  a  blanched  whiteness. 

There  were  people  in  the  street,  scatterings,  and 
huddled  clusters  and  solitary  figures.  They  were  stand- 
ing motionless  in  attitudes  of  poised  tension,  as  if  stricken 
to  stone.  Holding  snatched  up  garments  over  their  night 

325 


Treasure  and  Trouble  Therewith 

clothes,  they  waited  to  see  what  was  coming  next,  not 
speaking  or  daring  to  move,  their  eyes  set  in  terrified 
expectancy.  Lorry  saw  them  like  dream  figures — the 
fantastic  exaggerations  of  nightmare — and  looked  from 
them  to  the  garden,  the  house — the  solid  realities.  The 
ruins  of  the  chimney  lay  sprawled  across  the  flower  beds, 
the  splintered  trunk  of  the  fig  tree  rising  from  the 
debris.  Stepping  nimbly  among  the  bricks,  in  his  white 
coat  and  trousers  as  if  prepared  to  wait  on  table,  was 
Fong. 

"Oh,  Fong!"  she  cried.  "Thank  heaven,  you're  all 
right!" 

Fong,  picking  his  way  with  cat-like  neatness,  answered 
cheerfully : 

"I  velly  well.  I  see  chimley  fall  out  and  know  you  and 
Missy  Ellen  all  'ighty.  If  chimley  fall  in  you  be  dead." 

"Oh,  Fong!"  Aunt  Ellen  wailed;  "it's  like  the  Day  of 
Judgment." 

Fong,  having  no  opinions  to  offer  on  this  view  of  the 
matter,  eyed  her  costume  with  disapproval. 

"I  get  you  cover.  Velly  bad  stand  out  here  that  way. 
You  ketch  cold,"  and  turning  went  toward  the  house. 

"He'll  be  killed !"  Aunt  Ellen  cried.  "He  mustn't  go !" 
Then  suddenly  she  appeared  to  relinquish  all  concern  in 
him  as  if  on  this  day  of  doom  there  was  no  use  troubling 
about  anything.  Her  eye  shifted  to  Lorry,  and  scanning 
her  became  infused  with  a  brisk  surprise.  "Why,  Lorry, 
you're  all  dressed.  Did  you  sleep  in  your  clothes?  You 
certainly  never  had  time  to  put  them  on." 

Lorry  was  spared  the  necessity  of  answering.  A  vio- 
lent quake  rocked  the  ground  and  Aunt  Ellen,  clasping 
her  hands  on  her  breast,  closed  her  eyes. 

"It's  beginning  again — it's  coming  back.  Oh,  God, 
have  mercy — God,  have  mercy!" 

326 


Lost 

The  figures  in  the  street,  emitting  strangled  cries, 
made  a  rush  for  the  center  of  the  road.  Here  they  stood 
closely  packed  in  a  long  line  like  a  great  serpent,  sta- 
tionary in  the  middle  of  the  thoroughfare.  The  low 
mutter,  the  quiver  under  their  feet,  died  away;  Aunt 
Ellen  dropped  her  hands  and  opened  her  eyes. 

"Is  this  going  to  go  on?  Isn't  one  enough?"  she 
wailed.  "I'll  never  enter  a  house  again,  never  in  this 
world." 

The  appearance  of  Fong,  coming  down  the  steps  carry- 
ing an  armchair,  diverted  her. 

"He's  got  out  alive.  Don't  you  go  back  into  that 
house,  Fong.  It  isn't  safe,  it'll  fall  at  any  moment. 
There's  going  to  be  more  of  this — it  isn't  finished." 

Fong,  without  answering,  set  the  chair  down  beside  her, 
taking  from  its  seat  a  cloak  and  an  eiderdown  coverlet. 
He  and  Lorry  wrapped  her  in  the  cloak  and  disposing 
her  in  the  chair  tucked  the  coverlet  round  her  knees. 
Thus  installed,  her  ancient  head  decorated  with  crimp- 
ing pins,  her  old  gnarled  hands  shaking  in  her  lap,  she 
sank  against  the  back  murmuring,  "Oh,  what  a  morning, 
what  a  morning!" 

A  lurid  light  glowed  above  the  trees  and  sent  a  coppery 
luster  down  the  street.  The  sun  had  swum  up  over  the 
housetops  and  the  people  in  the  roadway;  Lorry,  on  the 
lawn,  gazed  at  it  aghast,  a  crowning  amazement.  It 
hung,  a  scarlet  ball,  enormously  large,  like  a  red  seal  of 
vengeance  suspended  in  the  heavens.  "Look  at  the  sun, 
look  at  the  sun !"  came  in  thin  cries  from  the  throng.  It 
shone  through  a  glassy,  brownish  film  in  which  its  rays 
were  absorbed,  leaving  it  a  sharply  defined,  magnified 
sphere.  Fong,  coming  down  the  steps  with  another  chair, 
eyed  it  curiously. 

"Awful  big  sun,"  he  commented. 

327 


Treasure  and  Trouble  Therewith 

"It's  shining  through  something,"  said  Lorry.  "It 
must  be  dust." 

Fong  put  the  chair  beside  Aunt  Ellen's,  pressing  it 
into  steadiness  on  the  lawn's  yielding  turf. 

"Maybe  smoke,"  he  answered.  "After  earthquake  al- 
ways fire." 

Aunt  Ellen  gave  forth  a  despairing  groan. 

"Anything  more!" 

"Don't  be  afraid,"  Lorry  comforted.  "We've  the  best 
department  in  the  country.  If  there  should  be  any  fires 
they'll  be  put  out." 

Aunt  Ellen  took  courage  from  this  confident  statement 
and,  life  running  stronger  in  her,  sat  up  and  felt  at  her 
head. 

"Oh,  I've  got  my  pins  in,  but  how  was  I  to  take  them 
out?  Lorry,  do  sit  down.  You're  as  white  as  a  sheet." 

"I'm  all  right,  Aunt  Ellen.  Don't  bother  about  me. 
I'm  going  into  the  house." 

The  old  lady  shrieked  and  clutched  at  her  skirt. 

"No — no,  I  won't  allow  it."  Then  as  the  girl  drew  her 
dress  away,  "Lorry  Alston,  do  you  want  my  death  on 
your  head  as  well  as  your  own?  If  you  want  anything 
let  Fong  get  it.  He  seems  willing  and  anxious  to  risk  his 
life." 

"Fong  can't  do  this.  I'm  going  to  telephone;  I  want 
to  find  out  if  Chrystie's  all  right.  I'm  sorry  but  I  must 
go,"  and  she  ran  to  the  house. 

From  the  first  clear  moment  after  the  shock  her 
thoughts  had  gone  to  Chrystie.  As  she  had  tucked  Aunt 
Ellen  into  the  chair,  she  had  been  thinking  what  she 
could  do  and  the  best  her  shaken  brain  had  to  offer  was 
a  series  of  telephone  messages  to  those  friends  where 
Chrystie  might  have  gone.  The  anxiety  of  last  night  w 
as  nothing  to  the  anguish  of  this  unprecedented  ho 

328 


ere 

= 


Lost 

That  was  why  her  face  held  its  ashen  pallor,  her  eyes 
their  hunted  fear.  But  there  was  no  relief  to  be  found 
at  the  phone — a  dead  stillness,  not  even  the  whispering 
hum  of  the  wires  met  her  ear.  "It's  broken,"  she  said  to 
herself.  "Or  the  girls  have  got  frightened  and  gone." 

Out  on  the  lawn  she  paused  a  moment  beside  Aunt 
Ellen. 

"Something's  the  matter  with  the  wires.  I'm  going  to 
the  drugstore  on  Sutter  Street." 

"But  what  for — what  for?"  Aunt  Ellen  wanted  to 
know.  "Telephoning  when  the  city's  been  smitten  by  the 
hand  of  God!" 

"It's  Chrystie,"  she  called  over  her  shoulder  as  she 
went  out  of  the  gate.  "I  want  to  find  out  how  she  is." 

"Chrystie's  at  San  Mateo,"  Aunt  Ellen  quavered. 
"She's  all  right  there.  She's  with  the  Barlows." 

The  man  in  the  doorway  of  his  wrecked  drugstore 
laughed  sardonically  at  her  request  to  use  the  phone. 
All  the  wires  were  broken — you  couldn't  telephone  any 
more  than  you  could  fly.  Everything  was  out  of  com- 
mission. You  couldn't  telegraph — you  couldn't  get  a 
message  carried — except  by  hand — not  if  you  were  the 
president  of  the  country.  Even  the  car  lines  were 
stopped — not  a  spark  of  power.  The  whole  machinery 
of  the  city  was  at  a  standstill.  "Like  the  clock  there," 
he  said,  and  pointed  to  the  face  of  the  timepiece  hanging 
shattered  from  the  wall,  its  hands  marking  a  quarter  to 
five. 

She  went  back,  jostling  through  the  people.  Bold  ones 
were  going  into  the  houses  to  put  on  their  clothes,  timid 
ones  commissioning  them  to  throw  theirs  out  of  the  win- 
dows. She  saw  Chinese  servants,  unshaken  from  their 
routine,  methodically  clearing  fallen  bricks  and  cornices 
from  front  steps  to  which  they  purported,  giving  the 

329 


Treasure  and  Trouble  Therewith 

matutinal  sweeping.  She  skirted  a  fallen  stone  terrace, 
its  copings  strewn  afar,  the  garden  above  a  landslide 
across  the  pavement.  People  spoke  to  her,  some  she 
knew,  others  who  were  strangers.  She  hardly  answered 
them,  hurrying  on.  Dazed,  poor  girl,  they  said,  and 
small  wonder. 

If  Chrystie  was  in  the  city  she  would  certainly  come 
home.  It  was  the  natural,  the  only,  thing  for  her  to  do. 
But  it  woidd  be  impossible  to  sit  there  waiting  for  her, 
doing  nothing.  The  best  course  for  Lorry  was  to  go  out 
and  look  for  her — go  to  all  those  places  where  she  might 
be.  Aunt  Ellen  would  be  at  the  house,  waiting,  if  she 
came,  to  tell  her  they  were  all  right.  And  Lorry  would 
return  at  intervals  to  see  if  she  had  come.  If  by  midday 
she  hadn't,  then  there  was  Mark  Burrage.  She  would  go 
to  him.  But  Chrystie  would  be  back  before  then — she 
might  be  there  even  now. 

Her  rapid  walk  broke  into  a  run  and  presently  she 
was  flying  past  the  garden  fence,  sending  her  glance 
ahead  under  the  trees.  No — Aunt  Ellen  was  alone,  look- 
ing as  if  she  was  participating  in  a  solitary  picnic.  In 
front  of  her  stood  a  small  table  covered  with  a  white  cloth 
and  set  with  glass  and  silver.  She  was  inspecting  it 
closely  as  if  trying  to  find  flaws  in  its  arrangement  and 
as  Lorry  came  panting  up  the  steps,  said  with  a  re- 
lieved air: 

"Oh,  there  you  are!  Fong's  brought  out  breakfast. 
He  says  the  kitchen's  a  wreck  and  he  had  to  make  the 
coffee  on  an  alcohol  lamp.  The  range  is  all  broken  and 
there's  something  the  matter  with  the  gas  in  the  gas 
stove.  Did  you  get  the  Barlows?" 

Lorry  sank  down  on  the  other  chair. 

"No,  the  telephone  isn't  working.  We  can't  get  any 
word  to  anyone." 

330 


Lost 

"She'll  be  all  right,"  said  Aunt  Ellen,  lifting  the  silver 
coffee  pot.  "San  Mateo's  a  long  way  off." 

It  was  an  unfortunate  moment  for  a  heavy  shock  to 
send  its  rocking  vibrations  along  the  ground.  Aunt  Ellen 
collapsed  against  the  chair  back,  the  coffee  pot  swaying 
from  her  limp  grasp.  Lorry  snatched  it  and  Aunt  Ellen's 
hands,  liberated,  clutched  the  corners  of  the  table  like 
talons. 

"Oh,  God  have  mercy !  God  have  mercy !"  she  groaned. 
"If  this  doesn't  stop  I'll  die." 

Fong  came  running  round  the  corner  of  the  house. 

"Be  care,  be  care,  Missy  Ellen,"  he  cried  warningly. 
"You  keep  hold  on  him  coffee  pot.  I  not  got  much  alco- 
hol." He  saw  the  treasure  in  Lorry's  hand  and  was 
calmed.  "Oh,  all  'ight !  Miss  Lolly  got  him.  You  dlink 
him  up,  Miss  Lolly.  He  make  you  good  nerve." 

But  Lorry  could  not  drink  much.  It  seemed  to  Aunt 
Ellen  she  hardly  touched  the  cup  to  her  lips  when  she  was 
up  and  moving  toward  the  house  again — this  time  for  her 
hat. 

"Hat !"  muttered  the  old  lady,  picking  at  a  bunch  of 
grapes.  "The  girl's  gone  mad.  Wanting  a  hat  in  the 
middle  of  an  earthquake." 

Then  her  attention  was  attracted  by  a  man  stopping 
at  the  gate  and  bidding  her  good-morning.  He  was  the 
fishman  from  Polk  Street,  extremely  excited,  his  greet- 
ing followed  by  a  voluble  description  of  how  he  had 
escaped  from  a  collapsing  building  in  his  undershirt. 
Aunt  Ellen  swapped  experiences  with  him,  and  pointed 
to  the  chimney,  which  if  it  had  fallen  inward  would  have 
killed  her.  The  fishman  was  not  particularly  interested 
in  that  and  went  on  to  tell  how  he  had  been  down  to 
Union  Square  and  seen  thousands  of  people  there — and 
had  she  heard  that  fires  had  started  in  the  Mission — a 

331 


Treasure  and  Trouble  Therewith 

good  many  fires?  Lorry,  emerging  from  the  house,  drew 
near  and  said,  as  she  had  said  to  Fong: 

"But  there's  no  danger  of  fires  getting  any  headway. 
You  can't  beat  our  firemen  in  the  country." 

The  fishman,  moving  to  go,  looked  dubious. 

"Yes,  we  got  a  grand  department,  no  one  denies  that. 
But  the  Mission's  mostly  wood  and  there's  quite  some 
wind.  It  looks  pretty  serious  to  me." 

He  passed  on  and  Lorry  went  to  the  gate. 

"Where  are  you  going  now?"  Aunt  Ellen  cried. 

"Out,"  said  Lorry,  clicking  up  the  hasp.  "I  want  to 
see  what's  going  on.  I'll  be  back  in  an  hour  or  two.  If 
Chrystie  comes,  stay  here  with  her — right  here  on  this 
spot." 

Afterward  Lorry  said  she  thought  she  walked  twenty 
miles  that  day.  Her  first  point  of  call  was  Crowley's 
livery  stable  where  she  asked  for  a  carriage.  There  were 
only  two  men  in  the  place;  one,  owl-eyed  and  speechless, 
in  what  appeared  to  be  a  state  of  drunken  stupefaction, 
waved  her  to  the  other,  who,  putting  a  horse  into  the 
shafts  of  a  cart,  shook  his  head.  He  couldn't  give  her  a 
carriage  for  love  or  money.  Every  vehicle  in  the  place 
was  already  gone — the  rich  customers  had  grabbed  them 
all,  some  come  right  in  and  taken  them,  others  bought 
them  outright.  He  swung  his  hand  to  the  empty  depths 
of  the  building;  not  an  animal  left  but  the  one  he  had 
and  he  was  taking  it  to  go  after  his  wife  and  children ; 
they  were  down  in  the  Mission  and  the  Mission  was  on 
fire.  He  had  the  animal  harnessed  and  was  climbing  to 
the  seat  as  Lorry  left  the  stable. 

After  that  she  gave  up  all  hope  of  getting  a  carriage 
and  started  to  walk.  She  went  to  every  house  in  that 
part  of  the  city  where  Chrystie  had  friends,  and  in  none 
of  them  found  trace  or  word  of  her  sister.  She  saw 

332 


Lost 

people  so  stunned  that  they  could  hardly  remember  who 
Chrystie  was,  others  who  treated  the  catastrophe  lightly 
— not  any  worse  than  the  quake  of  '68,  nothing  to  make 
a  fuss  about — a  good  shake-up,  that  was  all.  She  found 
families  sitting  down  to  cold  breakfasts,  last  night's  coffee 
heated  on  the  flicker  of  gas  left  in  the  pipes ;  others 
gathered  in  pallid  groups  on  the  doorsteps,  afraid  to  go 
into  the  house,  undaunted  Chinamen  bringing  down  their 
clothes. 

As  she  moved  her  ears  were  greeted  with  a  growing 
narrative  of  disaster.  There  had  been  great  loss  of  life 
in  the  poorer  sections;  the  injured  were  being  taken  to 
the  Mechanics'  Pavilion ;  the  Mission  was  on  fire  and  the 
wind  was  with  it.  In  this,  the  residential  part,  there  was 
no  water.  Thrifty  housekeepers  were  filling  their  bath- 
tubs with  the  little  dribble  that  came  from  the  faucets, 
and  cautioning  those  who  adhered  to  the  habits  of  every 
day  to  forego  the  morning  wash.  It  was  not  till  she  was 
near  home  again  that,  meeting  a  man  she  knew,  she 
learned  the  full  measure  of  ill-tidings.  The  mains  had 
been  torn  to  pieces,  there  was  no  water  in  San  Fran- 
cisco, and  the  fire,  with  a  strong  wind  behind  it,  was 
eating  its  way  across  the  Mission,  triumphant  and  un- 
checked. 

It  gave  her  pause  for  a  wide-seeing,  aghast  moment, 
then  her  eye  caught  the  roof  of  her  home  and  she  forgot 
— Chrystie  might  be  there,  ought  to  be  there,  must  be 
there.  She  broke  into  a  run,  sending  that  questing  glance 
ahead  to  the  green  sweep  of  the  lawn.  It  met,  as  it  had 
done  before,  the  figure  of  Aunt  Ellen  in  front  of  the 
little  table,  the  empty  chair  at  her  side.  Even  then  she 
did  not  give  up  hope.  Chrystie  might  be  in  the  house; 
all  Aunt  Ellen's  pleadings  could  not  restrain  her  if  it 
suited  her  purpose  to  dare  a  danger. 

333 


Treasure  and  Trouble  Therewith 

Before  she  reached  the  gate  she  called,  hoarse  and 
breathless. 

"Is  Chrystie  there?" 

Aunt  Ellen  started  and  looked  at  her. 

"Oh,  dear,  here  you  are  at  last!  I've  been  in  such  a 
state  about  you.  No,  of  course  Chrystie's  not  here.  I 
knew  she  wouldn't  be.  They  say  all  the  trains  are 
stopped — the  rails  are  twisted.  How  could  she  get 
back?" 

Lorry  dropped  on  to  the  steps.  She  did  not  know  till 
then  how  much  she  had  hoped.  Her  head  fell  forward  in 
the  hollow  of  her  chest,  her  hands  clenched  together  in 
her  lap.  Aunt  Ellen  addressed  the  nape  of  her  neck: 

"I  don't  know  what's  going  to  happen  to  us.  I've  just 
sat  here  all  morning  and  heard  one  awful  thing  after 
another.  Do  you  know  that  the  whole  Mission's  burning 
and  there's  not  a  drop  of  water  to  put  it  out  with?  And 
if  it  crosses  Market  Street  this  side  of  the  city'll  burn 
too." 

Lorry  did  not  answer  and  she  went  on: 

"The  people  are  coming  out  of  there  by  hundreds. 
A  man  told  me — no,  it  was  a  woman.  I  didn't  know  her 
from  Adam,  but  she  hung  over  the  gate  like  an  old  friend 
and  talked  and  talked.  They're  coming  out  like  rats ; 
soldiers  are  poking  them  out  with  bayonets.  All  the  sol- 
diers are  down  there  from  the  Presidio  and  Black  Point. 
And  lots  of  people  are  killed — the  houses  fell  on  them 
and  caught  them.  It  was  a  man  told  me  that.  He'd 
been  down  there  and  he  was  all  black  with  smoke.  I 
thought  it  was  the  end  of  the  world  and  it  might  just  as 
well  have  been.  Thank  goodness  your  father  and  mother 
aren't  here  to  see  it.  And,  thank  God>  Chrystie's  safe  in 
San  Mateo !" 

Lorry  raised  her  head  in  intolerable  pain. 

334 


Lost 

"Don't,  Aunt  Ellen!"  she  groaned,  and  got  up  from 
the  step. 

The  old  lady,  seeing  her  face,  cast  aside  the  eiderdown, 
and  rose  in  tottering  consternation. 

"Oh,  Lorry  dear,  you're  faint.  It's  too  much  for  you. 
Let's  get  a  carriage  and  go — somewhere,  anywhere,  away 
from  here." 

Lorry  pushed  away  her  helpless,  shaking  hands. 

"I'm  all  right,  I'm  all  right,"  she  said.  "Sit  down, 
Aunt  Ellen.  Leave  me  alone.  I'm  tired,  I've  walked  a 
long  way,  that's  all." 

Aunt  Ellen  could  only  drop  back,  feebly  protesting, 
into  her  chair.  If  Lorry  wanted  to  walk  herself  to  death 
she  couldn't  stop  her — nobody  minded  what  she  said  any- 
way. She  sat  hunched  up  in  her  wraps,  murmurously 
grumbling,  and  when  Fong  brought  out  lunch  on  a  tray, 
ordered  a  glass  of  wine  for  her  niece. 

"I  suppose  she  won't  drink  it,"  she  said  aggrievedly  to 
Fong;  "but  whether  she  does  or  not  I  want  the  satis- 
faction of  having  you  bring  it." 

Lorry  did  drink  it  and  ate  a  little  of  the  lunch.  When 
it  was  over  she  rose  again  and  made  ready  to  go.  She 
said  she  wanted  to  look  at  the  fire  from  some  high  place, 
see  how  near  it  was  to  Market  Street.  If  it  continued  to 
make  headway  they  might  have  to  go  further  up  town, 
and  she'd  be  back  and  get  them  off. 

She  went  straight  to  Mark  Burrage's  lodgings.  She 
knew  the  business  quarter  was  burning  and  thought  the 
likeliest  place  to  find  him  was  his  own  rooms,  where  he 
would  probably  be  getting  ready  to  move  out.  It  was 
nearer  the  center  of  town  than  her  own  home  and  as  she 
swung  down  the  hills  she  felt,  for  the  first  time,  the  dry, 
hot  breath  of  the  fire.  Cinders  were  falling,  bits  of 
blackened  paper  circling  slowly  down.  Below  her,  be- 

335 


Treasure  and  Trouble  Therewith 

yond  the  packed  roofs  and  chimneys,  the  smoke  rose  in  a 
thick,  curling  rampart.  It  loomed  in  mounded  masses, 
swelled  into  lowering  spheres,  dissolved  into  long, 
soaring  puffs,  looked  solid  and  yet  was  perpetually  taking 
new  forms.  In  places  it  suddenly  heaved  upward,  a 
gigantic  billow  shot  with  red,  at  others  lay  a  dense, 
churning  wall,  here  and  there  broken  by  tongues  of  flame. 

On  this  side  of  town  the  residence  section  was  as  yet 
untouched,  but  the  business  houses  were  ablaze,  and  she 
met  the  long  string  of  vehicles  loaded  deep  with  furniture, 
office  fixtures,  crates,  books,  ledgers,  safes.  Here,  also, 
for  the  first  time,  she  heard  that  sound  forever  to  be 
associated  with  the  catastrophe — the  scraping  of  trunks 
dragged  along  the  pavement.  There  were  hundreds  of 
them,  drawn  by  men,  by  women,  drawn  to  safety  with 
dogged  endurance,  drawn  a  few  blocks  and  despairingly 
abandoned.  She  saw  the  soldiers  charging  in  mounted 
files  to  the  fire  line,  had  a  vision  of  them  caught  in  the 
streets'  congestion,  plunging  horses  and  cursing  men  fight- 
ing their  way  through  the  tangled  traffic. 

The  door  and  windows  of  Mark's  dwelling  were  flung 
wide  and  a  pile  of  household  goods  lay  by  the  steps.  As 
she  opened  the  gate  a  boy  came  from  the  house,  stooped 
under  the  weight  of  a  sofa,  a  woman  behind  him  carrying 
a  large  crayon  portrait  in  a  gilt  frame.  The  boy,  drop- 
ping the  sofa  to  the  ground,  righted  himself,  wiping  his 
dripping  face  on  his  sleeve.  The  woman,  holding  the 
picture  across  her  middle  like  a  shield,  saw  Lorry  and 
shouted  at  her  in  excited  friendliness: 

"We're  movin'  out.  Goin'  to  save  our  things  while  we 
got  time." 

''Where's  Mr.  Burrage?"  said  Lorry. 

"Mr.  Burrage?"  The  woman  looked  at  her,  surprised. 
"He  ain't  here;  he's  in  the  country." 

336 


Lost 

"The  country?"  Too  many  faces  were  smitten  by  a 
blank  consternation,  too  many  people  already  vainly 
sought,  for  Lorry's  expression  to  challenge  attention. 

"Yes,  he  went — lemme  see,  I  don't  seem  to  remember 
anything — I  guess  it  was  nearly  a  week  ago.  His  mother 
was  took  sick.  He's  lucky  to  be  out  of  this."  Her  glance 
shifted  to  the  boy  who  was  looking  ruefully  at  the  pile  of 
furniture.  "That'll  do,  Jack,  we  can't  handle  any  more." 

As  Lorry  turned  away  she  heard  his  desperate  re- 
joinder: 

"Yes,  we  got  it  out  here,  but  how  in  hell  are  we  goin' 
to  get  it  any  farther?" 

After  that  she  went  to  Mrs.  Kirkham's.  There  was 
no  reason  to  expect  news  of  Chrystie  there,  except  that 
the  old  lady  was  a  friend,  had  been  a  support  and  help 
on  occasions  less  tragic  than  this.  Also  she  knew  many 
people  and  might  have  heard  something.  Lorry  was 
catching  at  any  straw  now. 

In  the  midst  of  her  wrecked  flat,  her  servant  fled,  Mrs. 
Kirkham  was  occupied  in  sweeping  out  the  mortar  and 
glass  and  "straightening  things  up."  She  was  the  first 
woman  Lorry  had  seen  who  seemed  to  realize  the  magni- 
tude of  the  catastrophe  and  meet  it  with  stoical  fortitude. 
Under  her  calm  courage  the  girl's  strained  reserve  broke 
and  she  poured  out  her  story.  Mrs.  Kirkham,  resting  on 
the  sofa,  broom  in  hand,  was  disturbed,  did  not  attempt 
to  hide  it.  Chrystie  might  have  gone  out  of  town,  was 
her  suggestion,  gone  to  people  in  the  country.  To  that 
Lorry  had  the  answer  that  had  been  haunting  her  all  day : 

"But  she  would  have  come  in.  They  all — everybody 
she  could  have  gone  to — have  motors  or  horses.  Even 
if  she  couldn't  come  herself  she  would  have  sent  someone 
to  tell  where  she  was.  She  wouldn't  have  left  us  this  way, 
hour  after  hour,  without  a  word  from  her." 

337 


Treasure  and  Trouble  Therewith 

It  was  dark  when  Mrs.  Kirkham  let  her  go,  claiming  a 
promise   to   bring  Aunt   Ellen  back  to   the   flat.      T 
couldn't  stay  in  the  Pine  Street  house.     Only  an  hou 
earlier  the  grandnephew  had  been  up  to  say  that  the  fir 
had  crossed  Market  Street  that  afternoon.     No  one  kne\ 
now  where  it  would  stop. 

With  the  coming  of  the  dark  the  size  of  the  conflagra 
tion  was  apparent.     Night  withdrew  to  the  eastern  edge 
of  the  heavens ;  the  sky  to  the  zenith  was   a  glistening 
orange,  blurred  with  shadowy  up-rollings  of  smoke,  alon^ 
the  city's  crest  the  torn  flame  ribbons  playing  like  north 
ern  lights.    Figures  that  faced  it  were  glazed  by  its  glar 
as  if  a  red-dipped  paint  brush  had  been  slapped  acros 
them;  those  seen  against  it  were  black  silhouettes  moving 
on  fiery  distances  and  gleaming  walls.     The  smell  of  it 
was  strong,  and  the  showers   of  cinders  so  thick  Lorry 
bent  down  the  brim  of  her  hat  to  keep  them  out  of  her 
eyes.     As  she  came  toward  the  house  she  felt  its  heat, 
dry  and  baking,  on  her  face. 

In  front  of  her,  walking  in  the  same  direction,  was  a 
man,  pacing  the  pavement  with  an  even,  thudding  foot- 
fall. The  gun  over  his  shoulder  proclaimed  him  a  soldier, 
and  having  already  heard  tales  of  householders  stopped 
on  their  own  doorsteps  and  not  allowed  to  enter,  she 
curbed  her  eager  speed  and  slunk  furtively  behind  him, 
skirting  the  fence.  Through  the  trees  she  could  see  the 
lawn,  lighted  up  as  if  by  fireworks,  and  then  the  two 
chairs — empty — the  eiderdown  lying  crumpled  on  the 
grass.  In  the  shade  of  branches  that  hung  over  the 
sidewalk,  she  scaled  the  fence  and  flew,  her  feet  noiseless 
on  the  turf.  She  passed  the  empty  chairs,  and  sent  a 
searching  glance  up  toward  the  windows,  all  unshuttered, 
the  glass  gone  from  the  sashes.  Were  they  in  there? 
Had  Aunt  Ellen  dared  to  enter?  Had  Fong  overcome 

338 


Lost 

\ 



I  her  terrors  and  forced  her  to  take  shelter?     If  he  had 
she  would  be  no  farther  than  the  hall. 

Like  a  shadow  she  mounted  the  steps  and  stole  in,  the 
front  door  yawning  on  darkness.  The  stillness  of  com- 
plete desolation  and  abandonment  met  her  ears. 

She  stood  motionless,  looking  down  the  hall's  shattered 
ength  and  up  the  stairs.  The  noises  from  without,  the 
Continuous,  dragging  shuffle  of  passing  feet,  calls,  crying 
>>f  children,  the  soldier's  directing  voice,  came  sharply 
hhrough  the  larger,  encircling  sounds  of  the  city  fighting 
|?or  its  life.  They  flowed  round  the  house  like  a  tide, 
| caving  it  isolated  in  the  silence  of  a  place  doomed  and 
jleserted.  She  suddenly  felt  herself  alone,  bereft  of  human 
:ompanionship,  a  lost  particle  in  a  world  terribly  strange, 
:choing  with  an  ominous,  hollow  emptiness.  A  length  of 
)laster  fell  with  a  dry  thud,  calling  out  small  whisper- 
ngs  and  cracklings  from  the  hall's  darkened  depths.  It 
oused  her  and  she  turned,  pushed  open  the  door  and 
rent  into  the  drawing-room. 

The  long  side  windows  let  in  the  glare,  a  fierce  illumina- 
jion  showing  a  vista  of  demolishment.  Through  broken 
its  of  mortar  the  parquet  reflected  it;  it  struck  rich 
: -learns  from  the  fragments  of  a  mirror,  ran  up  the  walls, 
| 'laying  on  the  gilt  of  picture  frames.  She  moved  for- 
'ard,  trying  to  think  they  might  be  there,  that  someone 
light  flit  ghost-like  toward  her  through  that  eerie  barring 
f  shadow  and  ruddy  light.  But  the  place  was  a  dry, 
ead  shell;  no  pulse  of  life  seemed  ever  to  have  beaten 
ithin  those  ravaged  walls.  She  summoned  her  energies 
>  call,  send  out  her  voice  in  a  cry  for  them,  then  stood— 
ie  quavering  sound  unuttered — hearing  a  step  outside. 
It  was  a  quick,  firm  step,  heavier  than  a  woman's,  and 
as  coming  down  the  stairs.  She  stood  suddenly  stricken 
)  a  waiting  tension,  dark  against  a  long  sweep  of  cur- 

339 


Treasure  and  Trouble  Therewith 

tain,  possessed  by  an  immense  expectancy,  a  gathering 
and  condensing  of  all  feeling  into  a  wild  hope.  Th 
steps  gained  the  hall  and  came  toward  the  doorway.  He 
hands,  clasped,  went  out  toward  them,  like  hands  extender 
in  prayer,  her  eyes  riveted  on  the  opening.  Throug] 
it — for  a  moment  pausing  on  the  sill  to  sweep  the  room' 
length — came  Mark  Burrage. 

He  did  not  see  her,  made  a  step  forward  and  thei 
heard  her  whisper,  no  word,  only  a  formless  breath,  th 
shadow  of  a  sound. 

"Lorry!"  he  cried  as  he  had  cried  the  night  before 
and  stood  staring  this  way  and  that,  feeling  her  pres 
ence,  knowing  her  near. 

Then  he  saw  her,  coming  out  of  the  darkness  with  he; 
outstretched  hands,  not  clasped  now,  but  extended,  thi 
arms  spread  wide  to  him  as  he  had  dreamed  of  some  dai 
seeing  them. 


CHAPTER    XXXV 
THE  UNKNOWN  WOMAN 

A  FEW  minutes  after  the  Vallejo  Hotel  had  sunk 
into  ruin,  a  man  came  running  up  the  street. 
Even  among  those  shaken  from  a  normal  de- 
meanor by  an  abnormal  event,  he  was  noticeable;  for 
he  was  wild,  a  creature  dominated  by  a  frenzied  fear. 
As  he  ran  he  cried  out  for  news  of  the  hotel,  and  shouted 
answers  smote  against  him  like  blows:  "Down — gone 
down !  Collapsed.  Everybody  in  the  lower  floors  dead !" 
And  he  rushed  on,  burst  his  way  through  groups,  shot 
past  others  flying  to  the  scene,  flung  obstructing  figures 
from  his  path. 

"Mad,"  someone  cried,  thrown  to  the  wall  by  a  sweep  of 
his  arm,  "mad  and  running  amuck." 

They  would  have  held  him,  a  desperate  thing,  clawing 
and  tearing  his  way  through  the  crowd,  but  that  sud- 
denly, with  a  strangled  cry,  he  came  to  a  stop.  Over 
the  shoulders  of  a  group  of  men  he  saw  a  girl's  head, 
and  his  shout  of  "Pancha!"  made  them  fall  back.  He 
gathered  her  in  his  arms,  strained  her  against  him,  in 
the  emotion  of  that  supreme  moment  lifting  his  face  to 
the  sky.  It  was  a  face  that  those  who  saw  it  never 
forgot. 

The  men  dispersed,  were  absorbed  into  the  heaving 
tumult,  running,  squeezing,  jamming  here,  thinning  there, 
falling  back  before  desperate  searchers  calling  out  names 
that  would  never  be  answered,  thronging  in  the  wake  of 
women  shrieking  for  their  children.  Police  came  bat- 

341 


Treasure  and  Trouble  Therewith 

tling  their  way  through,  forcing  the  people  back. 
Swept  against  a  fence  Garland  could  at  first  only  hold 
her,  mutter  over  her,  want  to  know  that  she  was  unhurt. 
She  gave  him  broken  answers ;  she  had  run  up  instead  of 
down — that  was  how  she  was  there.  The  horror  of  it 
came  back  in  a  sickening  realization,  and  she  shook, 
clinging  to  him,  only  his  arm  keeping  her  from  falling. 
A  man  had  thrown  his  coat  about  her,  and  Garland 
pulled  it  over  her,  then,  looking  down,  saw  her  feet,  bare 
and  scratched  in  pointed,  high-heeled  slippers.  The  sight 
of  them,  incongruous  reminders  of  the  intimate  aspects 
of  life,  brought  him  down  to  the  moment  and  her  place 
in  it. 

"Come  on,"  he  said.  "Let's  get  out  of  this.  You 
want  to  get  something  on.  Can  you  walk?  Not  far, 
only  a  few  blocks." 

She  could  do  anything,  she  said,  now  that  she  knew 
he  was  safe,  and,  her  fingers  in  the  bend  of  his  arm,  he 
pulled  her  after  him  through  the  press.  Gaining  clearer 
spaces,  they  ran,  side  by  side,  their  faces  curiously  alike, 
stamped  by  the  same  exalted  expression  as  they  fronted 
the  rising  sun. 

She  heard  him  say  something  about  taking  her  away, 
having  a  horse  and  cart.  She  made  no  answer;  with  his 
presence  all  sensations  but  thankfulness  seemed  to  have 
died  in  her.  And  then,  upon  her  temporary  peace,  came 
thronging  strange  and  dreadful  impressions,  waking  her 
up,  telling  her  the  world  had  claims  beyond  the  circle  of 
her  own  consciousness.  She  caught  them  as  she  ran — a 
shifting  series  of  sinister  pictures :  a  house  down  in  a 
tumbled  heap  of  brick  and  stone,  a  sick  woman  on 
a  couch  on  the  sidewalk,  a  family  dragging  furniture 
through  a  blocked  doorway,  pillars,  window  ledges,  cor- 
nices scattered  along  the  road.  Over  all,  delicately  per- 


The  Unknown  Woman 


vasive,  adding  a  last  ominous  suggestion,  was  a  faint, 
acrid  odor  of  burning  wood. 

"Fire!"  she  said.      "I  can  smell  it." 

"Oh,  there'll  be  fires.      That's  bound  to  come." 

"Where  are  we  going?"  she  panted. 

"Right  round  here — the  place  where  I  was  stayin'. 
There's  a  widder  woman  keeps  it,  Mrs.  Meeker.  She's 
got  a  horse  and  cart  that'll  get  you  out  of  this.  I  guess 
all  the  car  lines  is  bust,  and  I  guess  we'll  have  to  move 
out  quick.  Look!" 

He  pointed  over  the  roofs  to  where  glassy  films  of 
smoke  rose  against  the  morning  sky. 

"Everyone  of  'em's  a  fire  and  the  wind's  fresh.  I 
hope  to  God  this  shake  up  ain't  done  any  harm  to  the 
mains." 

They  had  reached  Mrs.  Meeker's  gate.  He  swung  it 
open  and  she  followed  him  across  the  garden  to  where 
a  worn,  grassy  path,  once  a  carriage  drive,  led  past  the 
house  to  the  back  yard.  Here  stood  Mrs.  Meeker,  a 
hatchet  in  her  hand,  trying  to  pry  open  the  stable  door. 

"Oh,  Lord!"  she  cried,  turning  at  his  step,  "I'm  glad 
you've  come  back.  Every  other  soul  in  the  place  has  run 
off,  and  I  can't  get  the  stable  door  open." 

Her  glance  here  caught  Pancha,  her  nightgown  showing 
below  the  man's  overcoat. 

"Who's  she?"  she  asked,  a  gleam  of  curiosity  breaking 
through  the  larger  urgencies. 

"My  daughter.  She  lives  right  round  here.  I  run 
for  her  as  soon  as  I  felt  the  first  quake.  You  got  to 
take  her  along  in  the  cart,  and  will  you  give  her  some 
clothes?" 

"Sure,"  said  Mrs.  Meeker,  and  the  flicker  of  curiosity 
extinguished,  she  returned  to  the  jammed  door  that 
shut  her  out  from  the  means  of  flight.  "Upstairs  in  my 

343 


Treasure  and  Trouble  Therewith 

room.  Anything  you  want."  Then  to  Garland,  who  had 
moved  to  her  assistance,  "I'm  goin'  to  get  out  of  here — 
go  uptown  to  my  cousin's.  But  I  wouldn't  leave  Prince, 
not  if  the  whole  city  was  down  in  the  dust." 

Prince  was  Mrs.  Meeker's  horse,  which,  hearing  its 
name,  whinnied  plaintively  from  the  stable.  Pancha 
disappeared  into  the  house,  and  the  man  and  woman  at- 
tacked the  door  with  the  hatchet  and  a  poker.  As  they 
worked  she  panted  out  disjointed  bits  of  information: 

"There's  a  man  just  come  in  here  tellin'  me  there's 
fires,  a  lot  of  'em,  all  started  together.  And  he  says 
there's  houses  down  over  on  Minna  and  Tehama  streets 
and  people  under  them.  Did  you  know  the  back  wall's 
out  of  that  new  hotel?  Fell  clear  across  the  court.  I 
saw  it  go  from  my  room — just  a  smash  and  a  cloud  of 
dust." 

"Umph,"  grunted  the  man.      "Anybody  hurt?" 

"I  don't  think  so,  but  I  don't  know.  I  went  out  in 
front  first  off  and  saw  the  people  pourin'  out  of  it  into 
the  street — a  whole  gang  in  their  nightgowns." 

A  soldier  appeared  walking  smartly  up  the  carriage 
drive,  sweeping  the  yard  with  a  glance  of  sharp  com- 
mand. 

"Say.  What  are  you  fooling  round  that  stable 
for?" 

Mrs.  Meeker,  poker  in  hand,  was  on  the  defensive. 

"I'm  gettin'  a  horse  out — my  horse." 

"Well,  you  want  to  be  quick  about  it.  You  got  to 
clear  out  of  here.  Anybody  in  the  house?" 

"No.      What  are  you  puttin'  us  out  for?" 

"Fire.  You  don't  want  to  lose  any  time.  We've 
orders  to  get  the  people  on  the  move.  I  just  been  in 
that  hotel  next  door  and  rooted  out  the  last  of  'em — 
running  round  packing  their  duds  as  if  they'd  hours  to 

144 


The  Unknown  Woman 


waste.  Had  to  threaten  some  of  'em  with  the  bayonet. 
Get  busy  now  and  get  out." 

He  turned  and  walked  off,  meeting  Pancha  as  she 
came  from  the  house.  A  skirt  and  blouse  of  Mrs.  Meek- 
er's  hung  loose  on  her  lithe  thinness,  their  amplitude 
confined  about  her  middle  by  a  black  crochet  shawl  which 
she  had  crossed  over  her  chest  and  tied  in  the  back. 

"A  lot  of  that  big  building's  down,"  she  cried,  as  she 
ran  up.  "I  could  see  it  from  the  window,  all  scattered 
across  the  open  space  behind  it." 

Engrossed  in  their  task  neither  answered  her,  and  she 
moved  round  the  corner  of  the  stable  to  better  see  the 
debris  of  the  fallen  wall.  Standing  thus,  a  voice  dropped 
on  her  from  a  window  in  the  house  that  rose  beyond  Mrs. 
Meeker's  back  fence. 

§"Do  you  know  if  all  the  people  are  out  of  that  hotel?" 
She  looked  up;  standing  in  a  third  story  window  was 
a  young  man  in  his  shirt  sleeves.  He  appeared  to  have 
been  occupied  in  tying  his  cravat,  his  hands  still  holding 
the  ends  of  it.  His  face  was  keen  and  fresh,  and  was 
one  of  the  first  faces  she  had  seen  that  morning  that 
had  retained  its  color  and  a  look  of  lively  intelligence. 

"I  don't  know,"  she  answered.  "I've  only  just  got 
here.  Why?" 

"Because  it  looks  to  me  as  if  there  was  someone  in 
one  of  the  rooms — someone  on  the  floor." 

The  stable  door  gave  with  a  wrench  and  swung  open. 
Garland  jerked  it  wide  and  stepped  back  to  where  he 
could  command  the  man  in  the  window. 

"What's  that  about  someone  in  the  hotel?"  he  said. 

The  young  man  leaned  over  the  sill  and  completed  the 
tying  of  his  cravat. 

"I  can  see  from  here  right  into  one  of  those  rooms, 
and  I'm  pretty  sure  there's  a  person  lying  on  the  floor — 

345 


Treasure  and  Trouble  Therewith 

dead  maybe.  The  electric  light  fixture's  down  and  may 
have  got  them." 

Garland  turned  to  Mrs.  Meeker: 

"You  get  out  Prince  and  put  him  in  the  cart."  Then 
to  the  man  in  the  window:  "I'll  go  in  and  see.  A  sol- 
dier's just  been  here  who  says  they've  cleaned  the  place 
out.  There's  maybe  somebody  hurt  that  they  ain't 
seen." 

"Hold  on  a  minute  and  I'll  go  with  you,"  called  the 
other.  "I'm  a  doctor  and  I  might  come  in  handy.  I'll 
be  there  in  a  jiff." 

He  vanished  from  the  window,  and  before  Prince  was 
backed  into  the  shafts,  walked  up  the  carriage  drive, 
neatly  clad,  cool  and  alert,  his  doctor's  bag  in  his  hand. 

"I  was  just  looking  at  the  place  as  I  dressed.  Queer 
sight — looks  like  a  doll's  house.  Bedding  flung  back 
over  the  footboards,  the  way  they'd  thrown  it  when  they 
jumped.  Clothes  neatly  folded  over  the  chairs.  And 
then  in  that  third-story  room  I  saw  something  long  and 
solid-looking  on  the  floor.  Seems  to  be  tangled  up  in 
the  coverlets.  The  electric  light  thing's  sprinkled  all 
over  it.  That's  what  makes  me  pretty  sure — hit  'em 
as  they  made  a  break.  Come  on." 

He  and  Garland  made  off  as  Pancha  and  Mrs.  Meeker 
set  to  work  on  the  harnessing  of  Prince. 

The  soldiers  had  done  their  work.  The  hotel  was 
empty — a  congeries  of  rooms  left  in  wild  disorder, 
opened  trunks  in  the  passages,  clothes  tossed  and  trampled 
on  the  floors.  As  the  men  ran  up  the  stairs,  its  walls 
gave  back  the  sound  of  their  feet  like  a  place  long  de- 
serted and  abandoned  to  decay.  The  recurring  shocks 
that  shook  its  dislocated  frame  sent  plaster  down,  and 
called  forth  creaking  protests  from  the  wrenched  gir- 
ders. The  rear  was  flooded  with  light,  streaming  in 

346 


The  Unknown  Woman 


where  the  wall  had  been,  and  through  open  doors  they 
saw  the  houses  opposite  filling  in  the  background  like 
the  drop  scene  at  a  theater. 

The  third  floor  had  suffered  more  than  those  below, 
and  they  made  their  way  down  a  hall  where  mortar  lay 
heaped  over  the  wreckage  of  glass,  pictures  and  chairs. 
The  bedroom  that  was  their  goal  was  tragic  in  its  signs 
of  intimate  habitation  strewn  and  dust-covered,  as  if 
years  had  passed  since  they  had  been  set  forth  by  an 
arranging  feminine  hand.  The  place  looked  as  untenanted 
as  a  tomb.  Anyone  glancing  over  its  blurred  ruin,  no 
voice  responding  to  a  summons,  might  have  missed  the 
figure  that  lay  concealed  by  the  bed  and  partly  enwrapped 
in  its  coverings. 

The  doctor,  kneeling  beside  it,  pushed  them  off  and 
swept  away  the  litter  of  glass  and  metal  that  had  evi- 
dently fallen  from  the  ceiling  and  struck  the  woman 
down.  She  was  lying  on  her  face,  one  hand  still  grip- 
ping the  clothes,  a  pink  wrapper  twisted  about  her,  her 
blonde  hair  stained  with  the  ooze  of  blood  from  a  wound 
in  her  head.  He  felt  of  her  pulse  and  heart  and  twitch- 
ing up  her  eyelids  looked  into  her  set  and  lifeless  eyes. 

"Is  she  dead?"  Garland  asked. 

"No."  He  snapped  his  bag  open  with  businesslike 
briskness.  "Concussion.  Got  a  glancing  blow  from  the 
light  fixture.  Seems  as  if  she'd  been  trying  to  wrap 
herself  up  in  the  bedclothes  and  got  in  the  worst  place 
she  could — just  under  it." 

"Can  you  do  anything  for  her  ?" 

"Not  much.  Rest  and  quiet  is  what  she  ought  to 
have,  and  I  don't  see  how  she's  going  to  get  it  the  way 
things  are  now." 

"We  got  a  cart.     We  can  take  her  along  with  us." 

"Good  work.  I'll  fix  her  up  as  well  as  I  can  and 

347 


Treasure  and  Trouble  Therewith 

•^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^*^^^^^™^^™*™*IM**"™^^"™"*M*T*****''^j 

turn  her  over  to  you."  He  had  taken  scissors  from  his 
bag  and  with  deft  speed  began  to  cut  away  the  tangled 
hair  from  the  torn  flesh.  "I'll  put  in  a  stitch  or  two 
and  bind  her  up.  Looks  like  a  person  of  means."  He 
gave  a  side  glance  at  her  hand,  white  and  beringed. 
"You  might  get  off  the  mattress  while  I'm  doing  this. 
We  can  put  her  on  it  and  carry  her  down.  She's  a  big 
woman ;  must  be  five  feet  nine  or  ten." 

Garland  dragged  the  mattress  to  the  floor,  while  the 
doctor  rose  and  made  a  dive  for  the  bathroom.  He 
emerged  from  it  a  moment  later,  his  brow  corrugated. 

"No  water!"  he  said,  as  he  stepped  over  the  strewn 
floor  to  his  patient.  "That's  a  cheerful  complication." 

He  bent  over  her,  engrossed  in  his  task,  every  now 
and  then,  as  the  building  quivered  to  the  earth  throes, 
stopping  to  mutter  in  irritated  impatience.  Garland 
went  to  the  window  and  called  down  to  Pancha  and  Mrs. 
Meeker  that  they'd  found  a  woman,  alive  but  uncon- 
scious, and  space  must  be  left  for  her  in  the  cart.  He 
stood  for  a  moment  watching  them  as  they  pulled  out  the 
up-piled  household  goods  with  which  Mrs.  Meeker  had 
been  filling  it.  Then  the  doctor,  snapping  his  bag  shut 
and  jumping  to  his  feet,  called  him  back: 

"That's  done.  It's  all  I  can  do  for  her  now.  Come 
on — lend  a  hand.  Take  her  shoulders;  she's  a  good 
solid  weight." 

Her  head  was  covered  with  bandages  close  and  tight 
as  a  nun's  coif.  They  framed  a  face  hardly  less  white 
and  set  in  a  stony  insensibility. 

"Lord,  she  looks  like  a  dead  one,"  Garland  said,  as 
he  lowered  the  wounded  head  on  the  mattress. 

"She's  not  that,  but  she  may  be  unless  she  gets  some- 
where out  of  this.  Easy  now;  these  quakes  keep  get- 
ting in  the  way." 

348 


The  Unknown  Woman 


They  carried  her  down  the  stairs  and  out  into  the 
street.  Here  the  crowd,  already  moving  before  the  fire, 
was  thick,  a  dense  mass,  plowing  forward  through  an 
atmosphere  heat-dried  and  cinder-choked.  The  voices 
of  police  and  soldiers  rose  above  the  multiple  sounds  of 
that  tide  of  egress  urging  it  on.  A  way  was  made  for  the 
men  with  their  grim  load,  eyes  touching  it  sympathetic- 
ally, now  and  then  a  comment :  "Dead  is  she,  poor  thing?" 
But  mostly  they  were  too  bewildered  or  too  swamped  in 
their  own  tragedy  to  notice  any  other. 

Prince  and  the  cart  were  ready.  From  her  discarded 
belongings  Mrs.  Meeker  had  salvaged  three  treasures, 
which  she  had  stowed  against  the  dashboard,  a  solio  por- 
trait of  her  late  husband,  a  canary  in  a  gilt  cage,  and 
a  plated  silver  teapot.  The  body  of  the  cart  was  clear, 
and  the  men  placed  the  mattress  there.  The  spread  that 
covered  the  woman  becoming  disarranged,  Pancha 
smoothed  it  into  neatness,  pausing  to  look  with  closer 
scrutiny  into  the  marble  face.  It  was  so  unlike  the  face 
she  had  seen  before,  rosy  and  smiling  beneath  the  shade 
of  modish  hats,  that  no  glimmer  of  recognition  came  to 
her.  Chrystie  was  to  her,  as  she  was  to  the  others,  an 
unknown  woman. 

Mrs.  Meeker,  even  in  this  vital  moment,  knew  again 
a  stir  of  curiosity. 

"Who  is  she?"  she  said  to  the  men.  "Ain't  you  found 
anything  up  there  to  tell  us  where  she  belongs?" 

The  doctor's  voice  crackled  like  pistol  shots: 

"Good  God,  woman,  we've  not  got  time  to  find  out 
who  people  are.  Take  her  along — get  a  move  on.  It's 
getting  d d  hot  here." 

It  was;  the  heat  of  the  growing  conflagration  was 
scorching  on  their  faces,  the  cinders  falling  like  rain. 

"Get  up  there,  Mrs.  Meeker,"  Garland  commanded; 

349 


Treasure  and  Trouble  Therewith 

"on  the  front  seat.  You  drive  and  Pancha  and  I'll  walk 
alongside." 

The  woman  climbed  up.  The  doctor,  turning  to  go, 
gave  his  last  orders : 

"Try  and  get  her  out  of  this — uptown — where  there's 
air  and  room.  Keep  her  as  quiet  as  you  can.  You'll 
run  up  against  doctors  who'll  help.  Sorry  I  can't  go 
along  with  you,  but  there'll  be  work  for  my  kind  all  over 
the  city  today,  and  I  got  a  girl  across  toward  North 
Beach  that  I  want  to  see  after." 

He  was  off  down  the  carriage  drive  almost  colliding 
with  a  soldier,  who  came  up  on  the  run,  a  bayoneted 
musket  in  his  hand,  his  face  a  blackened  mask,  stream- 
ing with  sweat.  At  the  sight  of  the  cart  he  broke  into 
an  angry  roar: 

"What  are  you  standing  round  for?  Do  you  want 
to  be  burnt?  Get  out.  Don't  you  know  the  fire's  com- 
ing? Get  out." 

They  moved  out  and  joined  the  vast  procession  of 
a  city  in  exodus. 

For  months  afterward  Pancha  dreamed  of  that  day — 
woke  at  night  to  a  sense  of  toiling,  onward  effort,  a  strug- 
gling slow  progress,  accomplished  amid  a  sea  of  faces 
all  turned  one  way.  The  dream  vision  was  not  more 
prodigiously  improbable  than  the  waking  fact — life,  com- 
fortable and  secure,  suddenly  stripped  of  its  garnishings, 
cut  down  to  a  single  obsessing  issue,  narrowed  to  the 
point  where  the  mind  held  but  one  desire — to  be  safe. 

Before  the  advancing  wall  of  flame  the  Mission  was 
pouring  out,  retreating  like  an  army  in  defeat.  Every 
avenue  was  congested  with  the  moving  multitude,  small 
streets  emptying  into  larger  ones,  houses  ejecting  their 
inmates.  At  each  corner  the  tide  was  swollen  by  new 
streams,  rolling  into  the  wider  current,  swaying  to  ad- 

350 


The  Unknown  Woman 


Treasure  and  Trouble  Therewith 

by  ropes  taut  about  their  chests,  by  the  handles,  pushed 
them  from  behind.  Then  as  the  day  progressed  and  the 
smoke  wall  threw  out  long  wings  to  the  right  and  left, 
they  began  to  leave  them.  The  sidewalk  was  littered  with 
them,  they  stood  square  in  the  path,  tilted  over  into  the 
gutter,  end  up  against  the  fence.  Other  possessions  were 
dropped  beside  them,  pictures,  sewing  machines,  furs, 
china  ornaments,  pieces  of  furniture,  clocks,  even  the 
packed  baby  carriages  and  the  clothes  baskets.  Only 
two  things  the  houseless  thousands  refused  to  leave — their 
children  and  their  pets.  It  seemed  to  Pancha  there  was 
not  a  family  that  did  not  lead  a  dog,  or  carry  a  cat,  or 
a  bird  in  a  cage. 

By  midday  the  cart  had  made  an  uptown  plaza,  and 
there  come  to  a  halt  for  rest.  The  grass  was  covered 
thick  with  people,  stretched  beside  their  shorn  belongings, 
many  asleep  as  they  had  dropped.  A  few  of  them  had 
brought  food;  others,  with  money,  went  out  to  buy  what 
they  could  at  the  nearby  shops,  already  depleted  of  their 
stores.  All  but  the  children  were  very  still,  looking  at 
the  flames  that  licked  along  the  sky  line.  They  had  heard 
now  the  story  of  the  broken  mains,  and  somberly,  with- 
out lament  or  rebellion,  recognized  the  full  extent  of  the 
calamity. 

A  young  girl,  standing  on  a  wall,  a  line  of  pails  be- 
side her,  offered  cupfuls  of  water  to  those  who  drooped 
or  fainted.  Thirsty  hoards  besieged  her,  and  Pancha, 
edging  in  among  them,  made  her  demand,  not  for  herself, 
but  for  a  sick  woman.  The  girl  dipped  a  small  cut-glass 
pitcher  in  one  of  the  pails  and  handed  it  to  her. 

"That's  a  double  supply,"  she  said.  "But  you  look 
as  if  you  needed  some  for  yourself.  We've  a  little  water 
running  in  our  house,  and  I'm  going  to  stand  here  and 
dole  it  out  till  the  fire  comes.  They  say  that'll  be  in 

352 


The  Unknown  Woman 


a  few  hours,  so  don't  bring  back  the  pitcher.  There's 
only  my  mother  and  myself,  and  we  can't  carry  anything 
away." 

Pancha  squeezed  out  with  her  treasure,  and  going 
to  the  cart  climbed  into  the  front,  sliding  over  the  seat 
to  a  space  at  the  head  of  the  mattress.  She  bent  over 
the  still  figure,  looking  into  the  face.  Its  youth  and 
comeliness  smote  her,  seemed  to  knock  at  her  heart  and 
soften  something  there  that  had  been  hard.  An  uprush 
of  intense  feeling,  pity  for  this  blighted  creature,  this 
maimed  and  helpless  thing,  rescued  by  chance  from  a 
horrible  death,  rose  and  flooded  her.  She  moistened  the 
temples  and  dry  lips,  lifted  the  bound  head  to  her  lap, 
striving  for  some  expression  of  her  desire  to  heal,  to 
care  for,  to  restore  to  life  the  broken  sister  that  fate 
had  cast  into  her  hands.  Mrs.  Meeker  came  and  peered 
over  the  side  of  the  cart,  shaking  her  head  dubiously. 

"Looks  like  to  me  she'd  never  open  her  eyes  again." 

Pancha  was  pierced  with  an  angry  resentment. 

"Don't  say  that.  She's  going  to  get  well.  I'm  going 
to  make  her." 

"I  hope  you  can,"  said  the  elder  woman.  "Poor  thing, 
what  a  time  she  must  have  had !  Your  pa  says  it  seemed 
as  if  there  was  no  one  there  with  her.  I'd  like  to  know 
who  she  is." 

"She's  somebody  rich.     Look  at  her  hands." 

She  touched,  with  a  caressing  lightness,  Chrystie's 
hand,  milk-white,  satin-fine,  a  diamond  and  sapphire  ring 
on  one  finger. 

Mrs.  Meeker  nodded. 

"Oh,  yes,  she's  no  poor  girl.  Anyone  can  see  that. 
You'd  get  it  from  the  wrapper,  let  alone  the  rings.  I've 
been  wondering  if  maybe  she  wasn't  straight." 

"She  is.     I  know  it." 

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Treasure  and  Trouble  Therewith 

"How  could  you  know  that?" 

"By  her  face." 

Mrs.  Meeker  considered  it,  and  murmured: 

"I  guess  you're  right.  It  has  got  an  innocent  look. 
It'll  be  up  to  you,  whether  she  lives  or  dies,  to  find  out 
who  she  is  and  if  she's  got  any  relations." 

"Oh,  that'll  be  all  right,"  said  Pancha  confidently, 
"I'm  going  to  take  care  of  her  and  cure  her,  and  when 
she's  good  and  ready  she'll  tell  me." 

They  moved  on  for  quieter  surroundings  and  to  find 
a  doctor.  This  was  a  hopeless  quest.  Every  house  that 
bore  a  sign  was  tried,  and  at  each  one  the  answer  was 
the  same :  the  doctor  was  out ;  went  right  after  the  quake 
to  be  back  no  one  knew  when.  Some  were  at  the  Me- 
chanics' Pavilion,  where  the  injured  had  been  gathered, 
and  which  had  to  be  vacated  later  in  the  day;  others  at 
work  in  the  hospitals  being  cleared  before  the  fire's  ad- 
vance. 

Late  in  the  afternoon  Mrs.  Meeker  left  them  to  go 
to  her  cousin's,  who  had  a  cottage  up  beyond  Van  Ness 
Avenue.  Prince  and  the  cart  she  gave  over  to  them; 
they'd  need  it  to  get  the  woman  away  out  of  all  this 
noise  and  excitement.  Tears  were  in  her  eyes  as  she 
bade  farewell  to  the  old  horse,  giving  Garland  an  ad- 
dress that  would  find  her  later — "unless  it  goes  with  the 
rest  of  the  town" — she  added  resignedly.  In  the  first 
shadowing  of  twilight,  illumined  with  the  fire's  high  glow, 
they  watched  her  trudge  off,  the  bird  cage  in  one  hand, 
the  portrait  in  the  other,  the  teapot  tucked  under  her 
arm. 

It  was  night  when  they  came  to  a  final  halt — a  night 
horribly  bright,  the  sky  a  blazing  splendor  defying  the 
darkness.  The  place  was  an  open  space  on  the  first  rise 
of  the  Mission  Hills.  There  were  houses  about,  here 

354 


The  Unknown  Woman 


and  there  ascending  the  slope  in  an  abortive  attempt  at 
a  street  which,  halfway  up,  abandoned  the  effort  and 
lapsed  into  a  sprinkling  of  one-story  cottages.  Above 
them,  on  the  naked  hillside,  the  first  wave  of  refugees  had 
broken  and  scattered.  Under  the  fiery  radiance  they  sat, 
dumb  with  fatigue,  some  sleeping  curled  up  among  their 
bundles,  some  clustered  about  little  cores  of  fire  over 
which  they  cooked  food  brought  out  to  them  from  the 
houses.  A  large  tree  stretched  its  limbs  over  a  plateau 
in  the  hill's  flank  and  here  the  cart  was  brought  to  a 
stop.  Prince,  loosed  from  the  shafts,  cropped  a  supper 
from  the  grass,  and  the  unknown  woman  lay  on  her  mat- 
tress under  the  red-laced  shade. 

A  girl  from  a  cottage  down  the  slope  brought  them 
coffee,  bread  and  fruit,  and  sitting  side  by  side  they 
ate,  looking  out  over  the  sea  of  roofs  to  where  the  ragged 
flame  tongues  leaped  and  dropped,  and  the  smoke  moun- 
tains rolled  sullenly  over  the  faint,  obscured  stars.  They 
spoke  little,  aware  for  the  first  time  of  a  great  exhaus- 
tion, hearing  strangely  the  sounds  of  a  life  that  went 
on  as  if  unchanged  and  uninterrupted — the  clinking  of 
china,  the  fitful  cries  of  children  sinking  to  sleep,  the 
barking  of  dogs,  a  voice  crooning  a  song,  and  laughter, 
low-voiced  and  sweet. 

Presently  they  drew  closer  together  and  began  to  talk ; 
at  first  of  immediate  interests — food  to  be  procured,  the 
injured  woman,  how  to  care  for  her,  find  her  shelter,  dis- 
cover who  she  was.  Then  of  themselves — how  the  quake 
had  come  to  each,  that  mad,  upward  rush  of  Pancha's, 
Garland's  race  along  the  street.  That  done,  she  sud- 
denly dropped  down  and  lying  with  her  head  against  his 
knee,  her  face  turned  from  the  firelight,  she  told  him 
how  Boye  Mayer  had  come  to  her  in  the  dawn,  and  how 
he  lay  buried  in  the  ruins  of  the  Vallejo  Hotel. 

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CHAPTER    XXXVI 

THE  SEARCH 

THERE  was  no  interchange  of  vows,  no  whisperec 
assurances  and  shy  confessions,  between  Lorry  anc 
Mark.  After  that  sheltering  enfoldment  in  hi* 
arms,  she  drew  back,  her  hands  on  his  shoulders,  looking 
into  his  face  with  eyes  that  showed  no  consciousness  o: 
a  lover's  first  kiss.  For  a  space  their  glances  held,  deep 
buried  each  in  each,  saying  what  their  lips  had  no  words 
for,  pledging  them  one  to  the  other,  making  the  pact  thai 
only  death  should  break.  Then  her  hands  slid  down  and 
one  caught  in  his,  they  moved  across  the  room. 

During  the  first  moments  exaltation  lifted  her  abov< 
her  troubles.  His  longed-for  presence,  the  feel  of  hii 
hand  round  hers,  made  her  forget  the  rest,  gave  her  i 
temporary  respite.  Only  half  heeding,  she  heard  him  tel 
how  her  summons  had  come,  how,  with  two  other  mei 
who  had  families  in  the  city,  he  had  chartered  an  engine 
made  part  of  the  journey  in  that,  then  in  a  motor,  giver 
them  by  a  farmer,  reached  Oakland,  and  there  hired  i 
tug  which  had  landed  him  an  hour  before  at  the  Italian',' 
wharf. 

For  himself  he  had  found  her,  after  a  day  of  agonizec 
apprehension,  at  a  time  when  his  hopes  were  dwindling 
To  know  her  safe,  to  feel  her  hand  inside  his  own,  was 
enough.  All  she  told  him  then  was  that  she  had  com< 
back  to  the  house  for  Aunt  Ellen  and  Chrystie,  anc 
found  they  were  gone.  But  they  might  have  left  a  letter 
some  written  message  to  tell  her  where  they  were.  Wit! 

356 


The  Search 


those  words  her  anxieties  came  to  life  again,  her  step 
lost  its  lingering  slowness,  her  face  its  rapt  tranquil- 
lity. 

Dropping  his  hand,  she  started  on  a  search,  through 
slanting  doorways,  by  choked  passages,  across  the  illu- 
mined spaciousness  of  the  wide,  still  rooms.  Nothing  was 
there,  and  she  turned  to  the  stairs,  running  up,  he  at 
her  heels,  two  shadows  flitting  through  the  red-shot 
gloom.  The  upper  floor,  more  damaged  than  the  lower, 
was  swept  with  the  sinister  luster,  shooting  in  above  the 
trees,  revealing  perspectives  of  ruin.  Every  window  was 
broken,  and  the  heat  and  the  smell  of  burning  poured  in, 
the  drift  of  cinders  black  along  the  floors. 

She  darted  ahead  into  her  own  room,  going  to  the 
bureau,  sending  a  lightning  look  over  it.  Standing  in 
the  doorway  he  saw  her  start,  wheel  about  to  glance  at 
the  bed,  the  chair.  A  pile  of  dresses  lay  in  a  corner, 
the  closet  door  was  open. 

"Someone's  been  here,"  she  said.  "The  diamond  ai- 
grette, the  jewel  box — all  my  things  are  gone.  Even  the 
dress  I  wore  last  night — it  was  on  the  bed.  They've  all 
been  taken." 

He  came  in  and  took  her  arm,  drawing  her  away. 

"Everything  of  value's  gone,"  he  said  quietly.  "I 
went  all  through  the  house  before  you  came  and  saw  it: 
the  silver  downstairs;  even  a  lot  of  the  pictures  are  cut 
out  of  their  frames.  Looters  have  been  here,  and  they've 
made  a  clean  sweep.  I  hoped  you  wouldn't  see  it.  Come, 
let's  go." 

She  lingered,  moving  the  ornaments  about  on  the 
bureau,  still  hunting  for  the  letter,  and  muttering  low 
to  herself, 

"It  doesn't  matter.  Those  things  don't  matter" — then 
in  a  voice  suddenly  tremulous — "they've  left  no  letter. 

357 


Treasure  and  Trouble  Therewith 

They've  left  nothing  to  tell  me  if  Chrystie's  back  and 
where  they've  gone  to." 

His  hand  on  her  arm  drew  her  toward  the  door. 

"Lorry,  dear,  there's  no  good  doing  this.  They  were 
probably  put  out,  had  to  go  in  a  hurry,  hadn't  time  to 
do  any  thinking.  When  I  came  in  here  there  was  a  soldier 
patrolling  along  the  street.  He  may  have  been  there  when 
they  left;  and  if  he  was  he  may  know  something  about 
them." 

She  caught  at  the  hope,  was  all  tingling  life  again, 
making  for  the  stairs. 

"Of  course.  I  saw  him,  too,  and  I  dodged  behind  him. 
If  he  was  here  then  he'd  know.  They  might  even  have 
left  a  message  with  him.  Oh,  there  he  is!" 

The  arch  of  the  hall  door  framed  the  soldier's  figure, 
standing  on  the  top  of  the  street  steps,  a  gold-touched 
statue  lifted  above  the  surging  procession  of  heads.  With 
a  swooping  rush  she  was  at  his  side. 

"Where  are  the  people  who  were  in  this  house?"  she 
gasped. 

The  man  started  and  wheeled  on  her,  saw  Burrage  be- 
hind her,  and  looked  from  one  to  the  other,  surprised. 

"How'd  you  get  in  there?"  he  demanded.  "That 
house  was  cleared  out  this  afternoon." 

"Never  mind  that,"  said  Mark.  "We're  leaving  it 
now.  This  lady's  looking  for  her  family  that  she  left 
here  earlier  in  the  day." 

"Well,  I  got  'em  off — at  least  I  got  the  only  one  here, 
an  old  lady.  She  was  sittin'  there  on  the  grass  where 
you  see  the  chairs.  We  had  orders  to  put  out  everyone 
along  this  block,  and  seein'  she  was  old  and  upset  I  com- 
mandeered an  express  wagon  that  was  passin'  and  made 
the  driver  take  her  along." 

"Only  one  lady?"    Lorry's  voice  was  husky. 

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Treasure  and  Trouble  Therewith 

to  cheer  and  reassure  her,  but  he  saw  with  a  dark  dread 
what  might  have  happened.  An  hour  before  he  had 
skirted  the  edges  of  the  fire,  seen  the  hotel  district  burn- 
ing, heard  of  fallen  buildings.  Chrystie  coulci  have  been 
there  keeping  a  tryst  with  Mayer.  He  let  his  thoughts 
go  no  further,  stopped  them  in  their  race  toward  a  trag- 
edy that  would  shatter  the  girl  beside  him  as  the  city  had 
been  shattered. 

As  they  walked  her  eye  ranged  over  the  throng,  shot 
its  strained  inquiry  along  the  swaying  sea  of  bodies. 
Chrystie  might  be  among  them,  might  even  now  be  some- 
where in  this  endless  army.  A  woman's  figure,  caught 
through  a  break  in  the  ranks,  called  her  to  a  running 
chase;  a  girl's  face,  glimpsed  over  her  shoulder,  brought 
her  to  a  standstill,  pitifully  expectant.  He  tried  to  get 
her  to  Mrs.  Kirkham's,  but  was  met  with  a  refusal  he 
saw  there  was.no  use  combating.  Early  night  found  them 
in  a  plaza  on  a  hilltop,  moving  from  group  to  group. 

He  had  a  memory  of  her  never  to  be  forgotten,  walking 
ahead  of  him,  copper-bright,  as  she  fronted  the  blazing 
light,  black  against  it,  bending  to  look  at  a  half-hidden 
face,  kneeling  beside  a  covered  shape,  outstretched  in 
a  stupor  of  sleep.  The  night  had  reached  its  middle 
hours,  the  dense  stillness  of  universal  repose  held  the 
crowded  spot,  when  she  finally  sank  in  a  helpless  exhaus- 
tion and  slept  at  his  feet.  He  could  do  nothing  but  cover 
her  with  his  coat,  hold  vigil  over  her,  move  so  that  his 
body  was  a  shield  to  keep  the  glare  from  her  face.  He 
watched  her  till  the  day  came,  and  the  noises  of  the  wak 
ing  life  around  them  called  her  back  to  the  consciousnes 
of  her  anxiety. 

The  loss  of  relatives  and  friends  was  one  of  the  fo 
lowing  features  of  the  great  disaster.  With  every  mean 
of  communication  cut  off,  with  a  great  area  flaming 

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impossible  to  cross,  enormous  to  circle,  with  the  exodus 
in  some  places  so  hurried  no  time  was  left  for  plans  or 
the  sending  of  messages,  with  the  spread  of  the  fire  so 
rapid  no  one  knew  where  the  houseless  thousands  would 
end  their  march,  families  were  scattered,  individuals  lost 
track  of.  Groups  that  at  dawn  had  been  a  compact 
whole,  an  hour  later  had  broken,  been  dispersed,  members 
vanished,  disappeared  in  the  inconceivable  chaos.  To 
those  who  suffered  this  added  horror  the  earthquake  re- 
mains less  a  national  calamity  than  the  memory  of  a  time 
when  they  knew  an  anguish  beyond  their  dreams  of  what 
pain  could  be. 

So  it  was  with  Lorry.  The  wide,  encompassing  dis- 
tress touched  her  no  more  than  the  storm  does  one  sick 
unto  death.  The  growing  demolition,  spread  out  under 
her  eyes  roused  no  responsive  interest.  It  was  like  a 
story  someone  was  trying  to  tell  her  when  she  was  writh- 
ing in  torment,  a  nightmare  coming  in  flashes  of  recol- 
lection through  a  day  full  of  real,  poignant  terrors. 

For  two  days  she  and  Mark  searched.  There  were 
periods  when  she  sought  the  shelter  of  Mrs.  Kirkham's 
flat,  dropped  on  a  bed  and  slept  till  the  drained  reservoir 
of  her  strength  was  refilled,  then  was  up  and  out  again. 
Mark  and  the  old  lady  had  no  power  to  stay  her.  He 
went  with  her,  and  Mrs.  Kirkham  kept  a  fire  in  the  little 
oven  of  bricks  in  the  gutter  so  that  food  might  be  ready 
when  they  came  back.  Returning  from  their  fruitless 
wanderings,  they  found  the  old  lady  seated  in  a  rocking- 
chair  on  the  sidewalk,  a  parasol  over  her  head  to  keep  the 
cinders  off,  the  coffeepot  on  the  curb  and  the  brick  oven 
hot  and  ready. 

It  was  Mrs.  Kirkham  who  found  Aunt  Ellen — safe 
with  friends  near  the  Presidio.  Lorry  would  not  go  to 
her,  unable  to  bear  her  questions.  So,  Mrs.  Kirkham, 

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Treasure  and  Trouble  Therewith 

who  had  not  walked  more  than  three  blocks  for  years, 
toiled  up  there,  sinking  on  doorsteps  to  get  back  her  wind, 
helping  where  she  could — a  baby  carried,  a  woman  told  to 
come  round  to  the  flat  and  get  "a  bite  of  dinner."  She 
quieted  Aunt  Ellen,  explained  that  Lorry  was  with  her, 
said  nothing  of  Chrystie,  and  toiled  home,  dropping  with 
groans  into  her  chair  by  the  gutter.  When  she  had  got 
her  breath  she  built  up  the  fire  and  brewed  a  fragrant 
potful  of  coffee,  which  she  offered  to  the  worn  and  weary 
outcasts  as  they  plodded  past. 

There  was  not  a  plaza  or  square  in  that  part  of  the 
city  to  which  Lorry  and  Mark  did  not  go.  They  hunted 
among  the  countless  hoards  that  spread  over  the  lawns 
in  Golden  Gate  Park,  and  covered  the  hillsides  of  the 
Presidio.  They  went  through  the  temporary  hospitals 
— wards  given  to  the  sick  and  injured  in  the  military 
barracks,  tent  villages  on  the  parade  ground.  They  saw 
strange  sights,  terrible  sights;  birth  and  death  under 
the  trees  in  the  open;  saw  a  heroism,  undaunted  and  un- 
dismayed ;  saw  men  and  women,  ruined  and  homeless,  offer- 
ing aid,  succoring  distress,  gallant,  selfless,  forever  mem- 
orable. 

Night  came  upon  them  in  these  teeming  camping 
grounds.  Along  the  road's  edges  the  lights  of  tiny  fires 
— allowed  for  cooking — broke  out  in  a  line  of  jeweled 
sparks.  Women  bent  over  them ;  men  lighted  their  pipes 
and  lay  or  squatted  round  these  rude  hearths,  all  that 
they  had  of  home.  The  smell  of  supper  rose  appetiz- 
ingly,  coffee  simmering,  bacon  frying.  Calls  went  back 
and  forth  for  that  most  valued  of  possessions,  a  can 
opener.  There  was  laughter,  jokes  passed  over  exchanges 
of  food,  an  excess  of  tea  here  swapped  for  a  loaf  of  bread 
there,  a  bottle  of  Zinfandel  for  a  box  of  sardines.  It  was 
like  a  great,  democratic  picnic  to  which  everybody  had 

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been  invited — the  rich,  the  poor,  the  foreign  elements, 
white,  black  and  yellow,  the  old  and  the  young,  the  good 
and  bad,  virtue  from  Pacific  Avenue,  vice  from  Dupont 
Street,  the  prominent  citizen  and  the  derelict  from  the 
Barbary  Coast. 

The  fire  flung  its  banners  across  the  sky,  a  vast  light- 
ing up  for  them,  under  which  they  went  about  the  business 
of  living.  At  intervals,  booming  through  the  sounds  of 
their  habitation,  came  the  dynamite  explosions  blowing 
up  the  city  in  blocks.  When  the  muffled  roar  was  over, 
the  gathering  quiet  was  pierced  by  the  thin,  high  notes 
of  gramophones.  From  the  shadow  of  trees  Caruso's 
voice  rose  in  the  swaggering  lilt  of  "La  Donna  e  Mobile" 
to  be  answered  by  Melba's,  crystal-sweet,  from  a  machine 
stored  in  a  crowded  cart.  There  were  ragtime  melodies, 
and  someone  had  a  record  of  "Marching  Through  Geor- 
gia" that  always  drew  forth  applause.  Then,  as  the 
night  advanced,  a  gradual  hush  fell,  a  slow  sinking  down 
into  silence,  broken  by  a  child's  querulous  cry,  a  groan 
of  pain,  the  smothered  mutterings  of  a  dreamer.  Like 
the  slain  on  a  battlefield,  they  lay  on  the  roadside,  dotted 
over  the  slopes,  thick  as  fallen  leaves  under  the  trees, 
their  faces  buried  in  arms  or  wrappings  against  the  fall 
of  cinders  and  the  hot  glare. 

In  all  these  places  Lorry  and  Mark  sent  out  that 
call  for  the  lost  which  park  and  reservation  soon  grew 
to  know  and  echo.  Standing  on  a  rise  of  ground  Mark 
would  cry  with  the  full  force  of  his  lungs,  "Is  Chrystie 
Alston  there?"  The  shout  spread  like  a  ring  on  water, 
and  at  the  limits  of  its  carrying  power,  was  taken  up 
and  repeated.  They  could  hear  it  fainter  in  a  strange 
voice — "Is  Chrystie  Alston  there?" — then  fainter  still  as 
voice  after  voice  took  it  up,  sent  it  on,  threw  it  like  a 
ball  from  hand  to  hand,  till,  a  winged  question,  it  had 

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Treasure  and  Trouble  Therewith 

traversed  the  place.  But  there  was  no  answer,  no  jubi- 
lant response  to  be  relayed  back,  no  Chrystie  running 
toward  them  with  welcoming  face. 

Late  on  the  second  night  he  induced  her  to  go  back  to 
Mrs.  Kirkham's.  She  was  heavy  on  his  arm,  stumbling 
as  she  walked,  not  answering  his  attempts  at  cheer.  He 
delivered  her  over  to  the  old  lady,  who  had  to  help  her 
to  bed,  then  sat  and  waited  in  the  dining  room.  No 
lights  were  allowed  in  any  house,  and  this  room  was  chosen 
as  the  place  of  their  night  counsels  because  of  the  illu- 
mination that  came  in  through  the  open  hole  of  the  fire- 
place, wrenched  out  when  the  chimney  fell.  When  Mrs. 
Kirkham  came  back  he  and  she  exchanged  a  somber  look, 
and  the  old  lady  voiced  both  their  thoughts : 

"She  can't  stand  this.  She  can't  go  on.  She's  hardly 
able  to  move  now.  What  shall  we  do?" 

Their  consultation  brought  them  nowhere.  As  things 
stood  there  was  no  way  of  instituting  a  more  extended 
search.  The  police  could  be  of  no  assistance,  over- 
whelmed with  their  labors;  individuals  who  might  have 
helped  were  lost  in  the  melee;  money  was  as  useless  as 
strings  of  cowrie  shells. 

At  dawn  Mrs.  Kirkham  stole  away  to  come  back  pres- 
ently saying  the  girl  was  sleeping. 

"She  looks  like  the  dead,"  she  whispered.  "She  hasn't 
strength  enough  to  go  out  again.  I  can  keep  her  here 
now." 

Mark  got  up. 

"Then  I'll  go ;  it's  what  I've  been  waiting  for.  With- 
out her  I  can  cover  a  big  area;  move  quick.  I  want  to 
try  the  other  side  of  town.  In  my  opinion  Mayer  had 
Chrystie  somewhere.  She  was  prepared  for  a  journey 
— the  trunk  and  the  money  show  that — and  the  journey 
was  to  be  with  him.  If  he  got  her  off  we'll  hear  from 

364 


The  Search 


her  in  a  day  or  two.  If  he  didn't  she's  in  the  city,  and 
it's  just  possible  she  drifted  or  was  caught  in  the  Mission 
crowd.  Anyway,  I'm  going  to  try  that  section.  Tell 
Lorry  I've  gone  there.  Keep  up  her  hope,  and  for  heav- 
en's sake  try  to  keep  her  quiet.  I'll  be  back  by  eve- 
ning." 

So  he  went  forth.  It  seemed  a  blind  errand — to  find 
a  woman  gone  without  leaving  a  trace,  in  a  city  where 
two  hundred  thousand  people  were  homeless  and  wander- 
ing. But  it  was  a  time  when  the  common  sense  of  every 
day  was  overleaped,  when  men  attempted  and  achieved 
beyond  the  limits  of  reason  and  probability. 

Half  an  hour  after  he  had  left  the  flat  he  met  with 
a  piece  of  luck  that  gave  his  spirit  a  brace.  On  the 
steps  of  a  large  house,  deserted  for  two  days,  he  came 
upon  one  of  his  companion  clerks.  This  youth,  son  of 
the  rich,  had  procured  a  horse  and  delivery  wagon  and 
had  come  back  to  carry  away  silver  and  valuables  left 
piled  in  the  front  hall.  Also  he  had  a  bicycle,  an  article 
just  then  of  inestimable  value,  and  hearing  Mark's  inten- 
tion of  crossing  the  city,  loaned  it  to  him. 

People  who  live  in  the  Mission  are  still  wont,  when 
the  great  quake  is  spoken  of,  to  remember  the  man  on 
the  bicycle.  So  many  of  them  saw  him,  so  many  of  them 
were  stopped  and  questioned  by  him.  Looking  for  a 
lady,  he  told  them,  and  that  he  looked  far  and  wide  they 
could  testify.  He  was  seen  close  to  the  fire  line,  up 
along  the  streets  that  stretched  back  from  it,  in  among 
the  crowds  camped  on  the  vacant  lots,  through  the  plazas 
and  the  tents  that  were  starting  up  like  mushrooms  in 
every  clear  space.  In  the  little  shack  where  the  Des- 
patch was  getting  out  its  first  paper,  full  of  advertise- 
ments for  the  lost  and  offers  of  shelter  to  the  outcast, 
he  turned  up  at  midday.  He  saw  Crowder  there,  told 

365 


Treasure  and  Trouble  Therewith 

him  the  situation,  and  left  with  him  an  advertisement 
"for  any  news  of  Chrystie  Alston." 

Late  afternoon  saw  him  back  on  the  edges  of  the  Mis- 
sion Hills.  The  great  human  wave  here  had  reached  the 
limit  of  its  wash.  The  throng  was  thinner,  dwindling  to 
isolated  groups.  Wheeling  his  bicycle  he  threaded  a  way 
among  them,  looking,  scrutinizing,  asking  his  questions. 
I3ut  no  one  had  any  comfort  for  him,  heads  were  shaken, 
hands  uplifted  and  dropped  in  silent  sign  of  ignorance. 

He  followed  a  road  that  ascended  by  houses,  steps  and 
porches  crowded  with  refugees,  to  the  higher  slopes  where 
the  buildings  were  small  and  far  apart.  The  road  shriv- 
eled to  a  dusty  track,  and  leaning  his  bicycle  against 
the  fence  he  sat  down.  He  felt  an  exhaustion,  bodily 
and  spiritual,  and  propping  his  elbows  on  his  knees,  let 
liis  forehead  sink  on  his  hands.  For  a  space  he  thought 
of  nothing  but  Lorry  waiting  for  news  and  his  return 
to  her  that  night. 

A  woman's  voice,  coming  from  the  hill  above  roused 
him, 

"Say,  mister,  have  you  got  a  bicycle?" 

He  started  and  turning  saw  a  girl  running  down  the 
slope  toward  him.  She  came  with  a  breathless  speed — • 
a  grotesque  figure,  thin  and  dark,  loose  cotton  garments 
eddying  back  from  her  body,  her  feet  in  beaded,  high- 
heeled  slippers  sure  and  light  among  the  rolling  stones. 

"Yes,"  he  said,  rising,  "I've  got  a  bicycle." 

She  came  on,  panting,  her  hair  in  the  swiftness  of  her 
progress  blown  out  in  a  black  mist  from  her  brow.  Her 
face,  dirty  and  smoke-smeared,  struck  him  as  vaguely 
familiar. 

"I  saw  you  from  the  barn  up  there,"  she  jerked  her 
hand  backward  to  a  barn  on  the  summit,  "and  I  just 
made  a  dash  down  to  catch  you."  She  landed  against 

366 


The  ghost  of  a  smile  touched  her  lips. 


The  Search 


the  fence  with  a  violent  jolt.  "This  morning  a  man  who'd 
come  up  from  below  told  me  the  Despatch  was  going  to 
be  published  with  advertisements  in  it." 

"It  is,"  he  said.     "By  tomorrow  probably." 

"Are  you  going  down  there  again?"  She  swept  the 
fcity  with  a  grimed,  brown  hand. 

"I'm  going  down  sometime,  not  right  now." 

"Any  time'll  do — only  the  sooner  the  better.  I've  got 
an  advertisement  to  put  in.  Will  you  take  it?" 

He  nodded.     He  would  be  able  to  do  it  tomorrow. 

She  smiled,  and  with  the  flash  of  her  teeth  and  some- 
thing of  gamin  roguishness  in  her  expression,  the  feeling 
J  that  he  had  seen  her  before — knew  her — grew  stronger. 
He  eyed  her,  puzzled,  and  seeing  the  look,  she  grinned 
in  gay  amusement. 

"I  guess  you  know  me,  a  good  many  people  do.  But 
my  make-up's  new — dirt.  Water's  too  valuable  to  use 
for  washing." 

He  was  not  quite  sure  yet,  and  his  expression  showed 
it.  That  made  her  laugh,  a  mischievous  note. 

"Ain't  you  ever  been  to  the  Albion,  young  man?" 

"Oh !"  he  breathed.    "Why,  of  course — Pancha  Lopez !" 

"Come  on  then,"  she  cried;  "now  we're  introduced. 
Come  up  while  I  write  the  ad." 

She  drew  away  from  the  fence  while  he  wheeled  his 
bicycle  in  through  a  break  in  the  pickets.  As  she  moved 
j along  the  path  in  front  of  him,  she  called  back: 

"We're  up  here  in  the  barn,   our  castle  on  the  hill. 

jit  mayn't  look  much  from  the  outside,  but  it's   roomy 

iind  the  view's  fine.     Better  than  being  crowded  into  the 

louses  with  the  people  sleeping  on  the  floors.     They'd 

fiave  taken  us  in,  any  of  'em,  but  we  chose  the  barn — 

juieter  and  more  air.     My  pa's  with  me."     She  turned 

ind  threw  a  challenging  glance  at  him.    "You  didn't  know 

367 


Treasure  and  Trouble  Therewith 


I  had  a  pa?  Well,  I  have  and  a  good  one."  Then  she 
raised  her  voice  and  called :  "Pa,  hello !  I've  corralled  a 
man  who'll  take  that  ad." 

From  the  open  door  of  the  barn  a  man  of  burly  figure 
appeared.  He  nodded  to  Mark,  bluffly  friendly. 

"That's  good.  We  didn't  know  how  we  was  to  get  in 
from  this  far,  and  we  bin  lookin'  out  for  someone."  Then 
turning  to  the  girl,  "You  get  busy,  honey,  and  write  it, 
We  don't  want  to  waste  this  young  feller's  time." 

They  entered  the  barn,  a  wide,  shadowy  place,  cool 
and  quiet,  with  hay  piled  in  the  back.  Depressions  in 
it  showed  where  they  had  been  sleeping,  a  horse  blanket 
folded  neatly  beside  each  nest.  To  the  left  an  open  door 
led  into  what  seemed  a  room  for  tools  and  farm  supplies. 
Mark  could  see  one  corner  where  below  a  line  of  pegs 
gunny  sacks,  stacked  and  bulging,  leaned  against  the 
wall. 

"Now  if  you'll  further  oblige  me  with  a  pencil  and 
paper,"  said  the  girl,  "I'll  tackle  it,  though  writing's 
not  my  strong  suit." 

He  pulled  out  a  letter — offering  a  clean  back — and 
fountain  pen.  The  girl  took  them,  then  stood  in  dubio 
irresolution,  looking  at  them  with  uneasy  eyes. 

"I  don't  know  as  I  can,"  she  said.  "I  don't  know 
how  to  put  it.  I  guess  you'd  do  it  better.  I'll  tell  you 
and  you  write." 

"Very  well."  She  handed  the  things  back,  and  goings 
to  the  wall  he  placed  the  letter  against  it  and,  the  pen 
lifted,  turned  to  her.  "Go  ahead,  I'm  ready." 

The  girl,  baffled  and  uncertain,  looked  for  help  to  hei 
father. 

"How'll  I  begin?" 

"Tell  him  what  it's  about,"  he  suggested.  "You  give 
him  the  facts,  and  he'll  put  'em  into  shape." 

368 


The  Search 


"Well,  we've  got  a  sick  woman  here,  and  we  don't 
know  who  she  is.  We  found  her  in  a  hotel,  hit  on  the 
Ihead,  and  she's  not  spoken  much  yet — -not  anything 
that'll  give  any  clew  to  where  she  comes  from  or  who 
'she  belongs  to.  That's  what  the  ad's  for.  She's  a  lady, 
young,  and  she's  tall — nearly  as  tall  as  you.  Blonde, 

blue  eyes  and  golden  hair,  and  she's  got  three  rings " 

She  stopped,  the  words  dying  before  the  expression  of 
;he  young  man's  face. 

"Where  is  she?"  he  said. 

Pancha  pointed  to  the  room  on  the  left,  saw  the  letter 
irop  to  the  floor  as  he  turned  and  ran  for  the  doorway, 
saw  him  enter  and  heard  his  loud  ejaculation. 

For  a  moment  she  and  her  father  stared,  open-mouthed, 
it  one  another,  then  she  went  to  the  door.  In  the  room, 
swept  with  pure  airs  from  the  open  window,  the  light 
subdued  by  a  curtain  of  gunny  sacks,  the  young  man 

s  kneeling  by  the  side  of  the  mattress,  his  hand  on 
the  sick  woman's.  She  was  looking  at  him  intently,  a 
slow  intelligence  gathering  in  her  eyes.  The  ghost  of  a 
smile  touched  her  lips,  and  they  parted  to  emit  in  the 
small  voice  of  a  child, 

"Marquis  de  Lafayette." 


CHAPTER  XXXVII 
HAIL  AND  FAREWELL 

THE  Alstons  had  taken  a  house  in  San  Rafael, 
was  a  big  comfortable  place  with  engirdling  bal- 
conies   whence    one   looked    upon    the   blossoming 
beauties  of  a  May-time  garden.     Aunt  Ellen  thought  it 
much  too  large,  but  when  the  settling  down  was  accom- 
plished, saw  why  Lorry  had  wanted  so  much  room.     Mrs. 
Kirkham  was  invited  over  from  town  "to  stay  as  long 
as  she  liked,"  and  now  for  a  week  there  had  been  visitors 
from  up  country — Mrs.  Burrage  and  Sadie. 

It  made  quite  a  houseful  and  Fong,  with  a  new  second 
boy  to  break  in,  was  exceedingly  busy.  He  had  brushed 
aside  Lorry's  suggestion  that  with  half  the  city  in  ruins 
and  nobody  caring  what  they  ate,  simple  meals  wo 
suffice.  That  was  all  very  well  for  other  people — let  th 
live  frugally  if  they  liked ;  Fong  saw  the  situation  f r 
another  angle.  Back  in  his  old  place,  his  young  ladies 
blooming  under  his  eye,  he  gave  forth  his  contentment 
in  the  exercise  of  his  talents.  Gastronomic  masterpieces 
came  daily  from  his  hands,  each  one  a  note  in  his  hymn 
of  thanksgiving. 

When  the  fire  was  under  control  he  had  turned  up  at 
Mrs.    Kirkham's,    saying  he  had   thought   "Miss   Loll 
would  be  there.     Then  he  had  taken  Lorry's  jewel  bo 
from  under  his  coat  and  held  it  out  to  her,  answering 
her  surprise  with  a  series  of  smiling  nods.     He  had  every- 
thing safe,  down  on  the  water  front — the  silver,  the  be 
glass,  all  the  good  clothes  and  most  of  the  pictures  whi 

370 


Hail  and  Farewell 


ie  cut  from  their  frames.  Yes,  he  had  moved  them  after 
lunt  Ellen  left,  having  packed  them  earlier  in  the  day 
ind  got  a  friend  from  Chinatown  who  had  a  butcher's 
ragon.  They  had  worked  together,  taken  the  things  out 
hrough  the  back  alley,  very  quiet,  very  quick;  the  sol- 
(iers  never  saw  them.  He  had  driven  across  town  to  a 
•forth  Beach  wharf,  hired  a  fishing  smack,  and  with  two 
talians  for  crew,  cast  off  and  sailed  about  the  bay  for 
hree  days. 

"I  stay  on  boat  all  time,"  he  said.  "My  business  mind 
•our  stuff.  I  watch  out,  no  leave  dagoes,  no  go  sleep, 
ill  locked  up  now.  Chinamen  hide  him,  keep  him  safe. 

bring  back  when  you  get  good  house." 

When  they  moved  to  San  Rafael  he  brought  them 
ack,  a  load  that  must  have  filled  the  butcher's  wagon 
o  its  hood.  His  young  ladies'  gratitude  pleased  him,  but 
jo  their  offers  of  a  reward  he  would  not  listen. 

"Old  Chinaman  take  care  of  my  boss's  house  like  my 
oss  want  me.  Bad  time,  good  time,  ally  samey.  You 
o  make  earthquake — he  come — my  j  ob  help  like  evly  day. 
'  no  good  Chinaman  if  I  don't.  I  no  get  paid  extla  for 
;o  my  job." 

The  girls,  after  fruitless  efforts,  had  to  give  in.  After- 
ard,  in  their  rooms  when  they  sorted  the  clothes — the 
NO  beds  were  covered  with  them — they  cried  and  laughed 
ver  the  useless  finery.  Fong  had  carried  away  only  the 

chest  and  costliest — evening  dresses,  lace  petticoats, 
pera  wraps,  furs,  high-heeled  slippers,  nothing  that  could 
e  worn  as  life  was  now. 

We'll  have  to  go  about  in  ball  dresses  for  the  rest 
f  the  summer,"  said  Chrystie,  giggling  hysterically. 
How  nice  you'll  look  weeding  the  garden  in  an  ermine 
:ole  and  white  satin  slippers." 

"We've  got  to  wear  them  somewhere,"  Lorry  decided. 

371 


Treasure  and  Trouble  Therewith 

"For  one  reason  we've  almost  nothing  else,  and  for  an 
other — and  the  real  one — Fong  mustn't  know  he's  rescuec 
the  wrong  things.  I  mil  weed  the  garden  in  white  satii 
slippers,  and  I'll  put  on  a  ball  dress  for  dinner  even 
night." 

Chrystie  was  well  again  now.  Drowsing  on  the  bal 
cony  in  the  steamer  chair  and  taking  sun  baths  in  th< 
garden  had  restored  her,  if  not  quite  to  her  old  rosi 
robustness,  to  a  pale  imitation  of  her  once  glowing  self 
The  rest  of  her  hair  had  been  cut  off,  and  her  shavei 
poll  was  hidden  by  a  lace  cap  with  a  fringe  of  fals< 
curls  sewed  to  its  edge.  This  was  very  becoming  and  ii 
sweeping  draperies — some  of  the  evening  dresses  made  ovei 
into  tea  gowns — she  was  an  attractive  figure,  her  charmi 
enhanced  by  a  softening  delicacy. 

The  dark  episode  of  her  disappearance  was  allowed  t< 
rest  in  silence.  She  and  Lorry  had  threshed  it  out  ai 
far  as  Lorry  thought  fit.  That  Boye  Mayer  had  droppec 
out  of  sight  was  all  Chrystie  knew.  Some  day  later  sh< 
would  hear  the  truth,  which  Lorry  had  learned  from  Pan 
cha  Lopez.  Lorry  had  also  decided  that  the  world  musl 
never  know  just  what  did  happen  to  the  second  Miss  Al 
ston.  The  advertisement  in  the  Despatch  was  withdraw! 
in  time,  and  those  who  shared  the  knowledge  were  swon 
to  secrecy.  Her  efforts  to  invent  a  plausible  explanatioi 
caused  Chrystie  intense  amusement.  She  hid  it  at  first 
was  properly  attentive  and  helpful,  but  to  see  Lorry  try- 
ing to  tell  lies,  worrying  and  struggling  over  it,  was  toe 
much.  A  day  came  when  she  forgot  both  manners  and 
sympathy,  began  to  titter  and  then  was  lost.  Lorry  waf 
vexed  at  first,  looked  cross,  but  when  the  sinner  gaspec 
out,  "Oh,  Lorry,  I  never  thought  I'd  see  you  come  tc 
this,"  couldn't  help  laughing  herself. 

On  a  bright  Saturday  afternoon  Chrystie  and  Sadie 

372 


Hail  and  Farewell 


were  sitting  on  the  front  balcony  in  the  shade  of  the 
Marechal  Niel  rose.  Mrs.  Burrage  and  Lorry  had  gone 
for  a  drive,  later  to  meet  Mark — who  was  to  stay  with 
them  over  Sunday — at  the  station.  Upstairs  Aunt  Ellen 
and  Mrs.  Kirkham  were  closeted  with  a  dressmaker,  fash- 
ioning festal  attire.  For  that  night  there  was  to  be  a 
dinner,  the  first  since  the  move.  Beside  the  household 
Mark  was  coming,  and  Crowder  was  expected  on  a  later 
train  with  Pancha  Lopez  and  her  father — eight  people, 
quite  an  affair.  Fong  had  been  marketing  half  the  morn- 
ing, and  was  now  in  the  kitchen  in  a  state  of  tempera- 
mental irritation,  having  even  swept  Lorry  from  his  pres- 
ence with  a  commanding,  "Go  away,  Miss  Lolly.  I  get 
clazy  if  you  wolly  me  now." 

Sadie  and  Chrystie  had  become  very  friendly.  Sadie 
was  not  disinclined  to  adore  the  youngest  Miss  Alston,  so 
easy  to  get  on  with,  so  full  of  fun  and  chatter.  Chrystie 
had  fulfilled  her  expectations  of  what  an  heiress  should 
be,  handsome  as  a  picture,  clothed  in  silken  splendors, 
regally  accepting  her  plenty,  carelessly  spendthrift. 

Lorry  had  rather  disappointed  her.  She  was  not 
pretty,  didn't  seem  to  care  what  she  had  on,  and  was  so 
quiet.  And  as  an  engaged  girl  there  was  nothing  ro- 
mantic about  her,  no  shy  glances  at  Mark,  no  surrepti- 
tious hand  pressures.  Sadie  would  have  set  her  down  as 
dreadfully  matter-of-fact  except  that  now  and  then  she 
did  such  queer,  unexpected  things.  For  example  the  first 
afternoon  they  were  there,  she  had  astonished  Sadie  by 
suddenly  getting  up  and  without  a  word  kissing  Mother 
on  the  forehead.  Mother,  whom  you  never  could  count 
on,  had  begun  to  talk  about  the  days  when  she  was  wait- 
ress in  The  Golden  Nugget  Hotel — broke  into  it  as  if  it 
didn't  matter  at  all.  It  made  Sadie  get  hot  all  over; 
she  didn't  suppose  they  knew,  and  under  her  eyelids 

373 


Treasure  and  Trouble  Therewith 

looked  from  one  girl  to  the  other  to  see  how  they'd  take 
it.  They  didn't  show  anything,  only  seemed  interested 
and  Sadie  was  calming  down  when  Mother  started  off  on 
George  Alston — how  fine  he  used  to  treat  her  and  al 
that.  It  was  then  that  Lorry  did  the  queer  thing — not  a 
word  out  of  her;  just  got  up  and  kissed  Mother  and  sal 
down.  In  her  heart  Sadie  marveled  at  the  perversity  o: 
men — Mark  to  have  fallen  in  love  with  the  elder  when 
the  younger  sister  was  there ! 

She  spoke  about  it  to  Mother  upstairs  that  night,  but 
Mother  was  unsatisfactory,  smiled  ambiguously  and  said : 

"I  guess  Mark's  the  smart  one  of  our  family." 

In    the    shade    of    the    Marechal  Niel  rose  the  girls 
talked   and   Chrystie,   her   tongue   unloosed  by   growing 
intimacy,  told  about  her  wild  adventure.     She  could  not 
help  it;  after  all  Sadie  knew  a  lot  already,  and  it  ham- 
pered  conversation   and  the  spontaneities   of   friendship 
to  have  to  stop  and  think  whether  one  ought  to  say  this 
or  not  say  that.     It  completed  Sadie's  subjugation:   here 
was  a  romance.     She  breathlessly  listened,  in  a  state  o 
staring  attention  that  would  have  made  a  less  garrulou 
person  than   Chrystie  tell  secrets.     When  she  knew  al 
she  couldn't  help  asking — no  girl  could: 

"But  did  you  love  him  reatty?" 

Chrystie,  stretching  a  white  hand  for  a  branch  of  th 
rose  and  drawing  it,  blossom- weighted,  to  her  face,  an 
swered : 

"No,  I  thought  I  did  at  first;  it  was  so  exciting  am 
all  the  girls  said  he  was  such  a  star.  But  I  was  alway 
afraid  of  him.  He  sort  of  magnetized  me — made  me  fee 
I'd  be  a  poor-spirited  chump  if  I  didn't  run  away  wit) 
him.  You  don't  want  to  have  a  man  think  that  abou 
you,  so  I  said  I  would  and  I  did  go.  But  that  night — 
shall  I  ever  forget  it?  It  was  pure  misery." 

374 


Hcdl  and  Farewell 


;'Do  you  think  you  would  have  gone  with  him?" 

"I  guess  so,  just  because  I  hadn't  the  nerve  not  to. 
I  felt  as  if  I  had  to  see  it  through — was  sort  of  pledged 
to  it.  Maybe  I  didn't  want  to  go  back  on  him,  and 
maybe  I  was  ashamed  to.  You  can  hardly  call  the  earth- 
quake a  piece  of  luck,  but  it  was  for  me." 

She  sniffed  at  the  roses  while  Sadie  eyed  her  almost 
awed.  Eighteen  and  with  this  behind  her!  The  more 
she  knew  of  the  youngest  Miss  Alston  the  more  her  re- 
spect and  admiration  increased.  She  waited  expectantly 
for  the  heroine  to  resume,  which  she  did  after  a  last, 
luxurious  inhalation  of  the  rose's  breath. 

"Wasn't  it  wonderful  that  the  person  who  found  me 
was  Pancha  Lopez?  I  keep  thinking  of  it  all  the  time. 
You  know  I  was  always  crazy  about  her,  but  I  never 
thought  I'd  meet  her.  And  then  to  finally  do  it  the  way 
I  did!" 

Sadie's  comment  showed  a  proper  comprehension  of 
this  strange  happening,  and  then  she  wanted  to  know 
what  Pancha  Lopez  was  like. 

"Oh,  she's  a  priceless  thing — there's  nobody  anywhere 
like  her,  in  looks  or  any  other  way.  She's  different. 
You  can't  take  your  eyes  off  her,  and  yet  she's  not  pretty. 
Remarkable  people  never  are." 

This  was  a  new  thought  to  Sadie  who,  absorbing  it 
slowly,  ventured  a  safe: 

"Aren't  they?" 

"No,  it's  only  the  second-class  ones  who  don't  amount 
to  anything  who  are  good-looking.  I  must  say  it  was 
a  blow  to  me  to  hear  that  her  real  name  was  Michaels. 
But  of  course  actresses  generally  have  other  names,  and 
Lopez  does  belong  to  her  in  a  sort  of  way.  She  told 
Lorry  about  it  and  about  her  father,  too.  Nobody  knew 
she  had  a  father." 

375 


Treasure  and  Trouble  Therewith 

"What's  he  like?" 

"Oh,  he's  a  grand  old  dear — rough,  but  he  would  tx 
naturally,  just  a  miner  all  his  life.  He  took  care  of  m 
as  if  I  was  a  baby." 

"He  won't  have  to  be  a  miner  any  more  now." 

They  exchanged  a  glance  of  bright  meaning,  anc 
Chrystie,  drawing  herself  up  in  the  chair,  spoke  wit 
solemn  emphasis: 

"Sadie,  I've  always  been  glad  I  had  money,  becaus 
I'd  be  lost  without  it.  But  I'm  glad  now  for  anothe 
reason — because  we  could  do  something  for  those  two.  I 
we  couldn't  they'd  have  had  to  go  back  and  begin  all  ove 
again.  Pancha's  got  some  money  saved  up,  but  it'll  b 
a  long  time  before  she  gets  it,  and  Lorry  says  it  wouldn' 
be  enough  any  way.  Think  of  that  kind  old  bear  wit 
his  hair  getting  gray  trudging  up  and  down  the  Mothe 
Lode !  If  I'd  thought  that  was  to  go  on  I'd  never  hav 
had  a  peaceful  night's  sleep  again.  We'd  have  had  t 
adopt  him,  and  I  know  he  wouldn't  have  liked  that.  Now 
thank  heaven,  we  can  make  him  comfortable  in  his  ow 
way." 

"Did  he  tell  you  what  it  was  he  wanted  t 
do?" 

"No,  he  wouldn't,  but  Lorry  got  hold  of  Pancha  an 
wormed  it  all  out  of  her.  For  years  he's  been  longin 
to  settle  down  on  a  ranch — that  was  his  dream.  Poo 
little  dream!  Well,  it's  coming  true.  We've  got  sev 
eral  ranches,  but  there's  only  one  that  counts — in  Mex 
ico.  There's  a  small  one  down  in  Kern  that  father  bough 
ages  ago  for  a  weighmaster  he  had  who  got  consumption 
He  died  there — the  weighmaster,  I  mean — anb!  we've  gon 
on  renting  it  out  and  the  trustees  having  all  sorts  o 
bother  with  the  tenants.  So  that's  going  to  be  Mr 
Michael's.  Lorry  had  the  transfer  made,  or  whateve 

376 


Hail  and  Farewell 


you  call  it,  yesterday  in  town.  She's  going  to  give  him 
the  papers  tonight." 

"It'll  be  the  last  time  you'll  see  them  for  a  long  while, 
I  guess." 

Chrystie,  suddenly  pensive,  dropped  back  in  the  chair. 

"Um,  it  will.  Before  we  see  Pancha  again  it  may  be 
years.  She's  going  abroad  to  study.  But  she's  promised 
to  write  and. tell  us  all  about  how  she's  getting  on.  And 
when  she  comes  back — a  real  grand  opera  singer — won't 
I  be  in  a  state !  I  get  all  wrought  up  now  thinking  about 
it.  If  she  makes  her  first  appearance  in  New  York  I'm 
going  on  there  to  see  her." 

"How  long  will  it  take — getting  her  ready,  training 
her  and  teaching  her?" 

"No  one  can  tell  exactly.  People  here  who've  heard 
her  and  know  about  those  things  say  she  has  such  a  fine 
voice  and  is  so  quick  and  clever  that  she  might  go  on 
the  stage  over  there  in  a  year  or  two.  She's  got  a  lot 
to  learn  of  course;  even  the  way  I  feel  about  her  I  can 
see  she  needs  to  be  more  educated.  But  no  matter  how 
long  it  takes  she's  going  to  be  financed — that's  what  they 
call  it — till  she's  finished  and  ready.  Lorry's  guaranteed 
that." 

"Lorry's  awful  grateful  to  them,  isn't  she?" 

"Lorry !"  Chrystie' s  glance  showed  surprise  at  such 
a  question.  "She's  ready  to  give  them  everything  she 
has.  She's  not  just  grateful,  she's  bowed  down  with  it. 
Why  she  advertised  in  all  the  papers  for  that  doctor  who 
saw  me  on  the  floor,  and  now  she's  found  him  she'd  build 
him  a  whole  hospital  if  he'd  let  her.  Lorry's  not  like 
me.  She's  got  deep  feelings." 

The  carriage,  turning  in  at  the  gate,  stopped  the  con- 
versation, and  Chrystie  rose  and  sauntered  to  the  top  of 
the  steps.  Mother  Burrage,  in  her  new  black  silk  mantle, 

377 


Treasure  and  Trouble  Therewith 

bought  through  a  catalogue,  and  a  perfect  fit,  came  up 
the  path,  Mark  and  Lorry  behind  her.  Mark  waved  a 
greeting  hand  and  Lorry  called  instructions — please  tell 
Fong  to  bring  out  something  cold  to  drink  and  tell  Aunt 
Ellen  and  Mrs.  Kirkham  to  come  downstairs  even  if  they 
were  in  their  wrappers — they  must  be  worn  out  shut  up 
with  the  dressmaker  all  day.  It  was  exactly  the  sort  of 
thing  Sadie  knew  she  would  say — and  Mark  only  just  off 
the  train. 

The  dinner  that  night  was  a  brilliant  success.  Fong 
had  outdone  himself,  the  menu  was  a  triumph,  the  table 
a  shining  splendor.  He  had  insisted  on  setting  it — no 
green  second  boy  could  lay  a  hand  on  the  family  treas- 
ures, now  almost  sacred,  like  vessels  lost  from  a  church 
and  miraculously  restored.  In  the  center  he  had  placed 
the  great  silver  bowl  given  to  George  Alston  by  the 
miners  of  The  Silver  Queen  when  he  had  retired  from 
the  management.  Fong  had  been  at  the  presentation 
ceremony,  and  valued  the  bowl  above  all  his  old  boss's 
possessions.  In  the  flight  from  the  Pine  Street  house  he 
had  trusted  it  to  no  hands  but  his  own,  and  finding  it 
hard  to  hold  had  carried  it  on  his  head.  He  had  also 
elected  to  wait  on  the  table — the  reunion  had  a  character 
of  intimacy  upon  which  no  second  boy  should  intrude- 
and  to  do  the  occasion  honor  had  put  on  his  lilac  crepe 
jacket  and  green  silk  trousers.  From  behind  the  chairs 
he  looked  approvingly  at  the  glistening  spread  of  silver 
and  glass,  the  flowered  mound  of  the  Silver  Queen  bowl, 
the  ring  of  faces,  and  "Miss  Lolly"  and  "Miss  Clist"  in 
the  dresses  he  had  saved. 

Clothes  of  any  kind  were  at  a  premium,  and  the  Misses 
Alstons'  hospitality  extended  to  their  wardrobe.  Sadie 
had  no  need  to  avail  herself  of  it;  she  had  stocked  hers 
well  before  coming,  making  a  special  trip  to  Sacramento 

378 


Hcdl  and  Farewell 


for  that  purpose.  But  Pancha,  who  had  lost  everything 
but  a  nightgown  and  slippers,  was  scantily  provided.  Be- 
fore dinner  there  had  been  a  withdrawal  to  Lorry's  room, 
whence  had  issued  much  laughter  and  cries  of  admiration 
from  Chrystie.  Now,  between  Mark  and  Crowder,  Pan- 
cha loomed  radiant,  duskily  flushed,  gleamingly  scintil- 
lant,  in  the  white  net  dress  with  the  crystal  trimmings 
that  Lorry  had  worn  on  an  eventful  night. 

Yes,  it  was  a  very  fine  dinner.  At  intervals  each  told 
his  neighbor  so,  and  then  told  his  hostess,  and  then  told 
Fong.  Crowder,  whose  customary  haunts  were  burned 
and  who  was  eating  anything,  anywhere,  sighed  raptur- 
ously over  every  succeeding  course,  and  Mrs.  Kirkham 
said  she'd  never  seen  its  peer  "except  in  Virginia  in  the 
seventies."  Toward  the  end  of  it  they  drank  toasts — to 
Lorry  and  Mark  on  their  engagement,  to  Mother  and 
Sadie  as  the  new  relations,  to  Pancha  and  Mr.  Michaels 
as  the  saviors,  to  Chrystie  on  her  restoration  to  health, 
to  Crowder  as  the  mutual  friend,  to  Aunt  Ellen  as  the 
ambulating  chaperon,  to  Mrs.  Kirkham  as  the  dispenser 
of  hospitality  and  wisdom,  and  finally,  on  their  feet  with 
raised  glasses,  to  Fong. 

The  party  broke  up  early ;  there  were  trains  and  boats 
to  catch  for  those  going  back  to  the  city.  With  the 
hour  of  departure  a  drop  came  in  their  high  spirits,  a 
prevailing  pensiveness  in  the  face  of  farewells.  Chrystie 
quite  broke  down,  kissed  Mr.  Michaels  to  his  great  con- 
fusion, and  wept  in  Pancha's  arms.  Father  and  daughter 
were  to  go  their  several  ways  early  in  the  week  and  this 
was  good-by.  They  stumbled  over  last  phrases  to  Lorry, 
good  wishes,  reiterated  thanks.  She  hushed  them,  hurried 
their  adieux  to  the  others,  herself  affected  but  anxious 
to  get  them  off;  such  excitement  was  bad  for  Chrystie. 
As  the  carriage  rolled  away  she  stood  on  the  steps,  a  wav- 

379 


Treasure  and  Trouble  Therewith 

ing  hand  aloft,  hearing  over  the  roll  of  the  wheels  and 
the  talk  in  the  hall,  Pancha's  clear  voice  calling,  "Good- 
by,  good-by;  oh,  good-by!" 

When  she  came  back  the  others  were  already  preparing 
to  disperse  for  bed.  The  old  ladies  were  tired,  yawning 
as  they  exchanged  good-nights  and  moved,  heavy-footed, 
for  the  stairs.  They  began  to  mount,  their  silks  rustling, 
muttering  wearily  as  they  toiled  upward.  Chrystie  had 
to  go  too,  at  once,  and  straight  to  bed;  no  reading  or 
talking  to  Sadie.  She  agreed  dejectedly  and  trailed  after 
the  ascending  group,  throwing  sleepy  farewells  over  her 
shoulder. 

Sadie,  who  felt  very  wide-awake,  was  for  lingering. 
It  was  only  ten,  and  what  with  the  unwonted  excitement 
and  two  cups  of  black  coffee,  she  did  not  feel  at  all  in- 
clined toward  sleep.  She  thought  she  would  stay  down  a 
little  longer,  and  then  her  glance  slipping  from  the  file 
of  backs  fell  on  her  brother  and  Lorry,  side  by  side, 
their  faces  raised,  their  eyes  on  the  retreating  proces- 
sion. Sadie  waited  a  moment,  then  seeing  they  made  no 
move  to  follow  it,  bade  them  a  brisk  good-night  and  went 
up  the  stairs  herself. 


